


Legacy of the Dragon

by Benjamin_Winter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, Breastfeeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dreams, Erotica, Essos, F/M, Fantasy, Flashbacks, Gratuitous Smut, Impregnation, Loss of Virginity, Non-Canon Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Romance, Smut, Tags May Change, Vaginal Sex, Virginity, Volantis, Westeros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-03-09 23:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 103,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13491804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benjamin_Winter/pseuds/Benjamin_Winter
Summary: The exiled Lucas Velaryon, rightful Lord of Driftmark, lives in the Free City of Volantis in Essos under a false name but remains determined to someday return to Westeros. When Lucas learns that the similarly exiled Princess Daenerys Targaryen is alive and is travelling Essos with her brother in search of a suitor, he makes arrangements and acquires her, setting off a series of events that leave their realm forever changed.A what-if story with romance, eroticism, and conflict, based on George R. R. Martin’sA Song of Ice And Fireseries of novels.- - -12/28/2018: The sixth chapter has been published.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone who gives kudos has my heartfelt thanks. I welcome and read all comments, so feel free to leave one.
> 
> Many characters are original creations. Most basis is drawn from the novels, but some is drawn from the television adaptation. True to the source material, some chapters cover only a few days, while others cover several weeks or even several months. The name that opens each chapter signifies the narrator. Many canon details were changed for the sake of this story, some minorly, others substantially. Previously published chapters are occasionally given corrections and other minor edits.

**LUCAS**  
  
          Lucas and Daenerys sat in silence across from each other. The only sound either made was the rustling of the satin cushions they sat upon when they slightly shifted their bottoms or legs. They were being ferried in a palanquin on the shoulders of a half-dozen armored guards whose services Lucas had purchased only for the day. Palanquins and other litters were a typical choice of Volantis’s wealthy residents to avoid the filth and stench of the streets.  
  
          Volantis was a hot and humid port city located on the largest mouth of the Rhoyne river where it met the Summer Sea. It was the most southeast of Essos’s Free Cities, the furthest from Westeros. That title, _‘Free City,’_ was accurate only in the sense that it was self-governed and that no distant tyrant ruled it. True freedom was scarce in Volantis. There were five slaves for every freeman in the city. Volantis may have had a surface that was rich, grand, and majestic, but its underbelly was as depraved and sadistic as anywhere else in the known world. Lucas held no love for the city. Though he had now lived in Volantis longer than he had anywhere else, it was not his true home, and it never would be.  
  
          Lucas sat with an air of calmness and confidence. His visage was masculine and handsome, with a strong nose and stronger jaw. His eyes were a pale blue. His wavy hair was brown in color and combed to perfection, and he was clean-shaven. He was tall and fit, no shorter than six feet. His skin was naturally fair in complexion, but it had a slightly golden hue to it, lightly kissed by the sun. His attire was lavish but simple, consisting of a cream-colored doublet, white, spotless trousers, and beige, polished boots. A magnificent longsword was fastened to his hip, sitting in a bejeweled scabbard, with a wide, sea green gemstone embedded into the center of its crossguard.  
  
          Across from him, Daenerys was strikingly fair and beautiful. Hers was a soft face, with a straight nose and full lips. Her eyes were as violet as amethysts, and they shone just as brilliantly under light. Her silver-blonde hair was long and brushed smooth. It cascaded down her shoulders, falling to the small of her back. Two locks of it were woven into seamless braids around her head, like crowns. Her eyebrows were the same silver color. Daenerys was reasonably slim and somewhat short in stature; she was no taller than five-foot-three, and could not have weighed much more than eight stone. Her pale complexion was noticeably fairer than Lucas’s, almost milky in color. Her face was only lightly and tastefully painted, most notably with a pink gloss on her lips and a black shadow around her eyes. The sleeveless, plum-colored gown she wore was cinched at the waist. It hugged her body, showing off the form of her figure, displaying the narrowness of her tiny waist and the swell of her smallish but perky breasts. Her white sandals bared most of her soft, pedicured feet.  
  
          Both were meticulously groomed and smelled of sweet perfumes, and both were fresh-faced and unmistakably young. Lucas was a man of four-and-twenty. Daenerys was a maiden of fourteen.  
  
          As their palanquin left the clustered lower city and neared the bay, the thickness and humidity of the air thinned into brisker breezes courtesy of the sea. They had departed minutes earlier from a third party’s manse wherein the gaudy magister Illyrio Mopatis had brokered the sale of Daenerys by her brother Viserys. Though he may have claimed otherwise, Lucas suspected that Viserys in truth had no interest in keeping his sister by his side. A princess could serve only one purpose to a ruthless, would-be king: wedding her off to the highest bidder. Knowing the allure of Daenerys’s beauty and her status as the last maiden of a usurped dynasty, Viserys desired either a small army of sellswords or enough coin to hire one. Lucas gave him the latter. That had meant handing over damn near every treasure and heirloom he and his father had brought from Westeros years ago ... but even so ... it was worth it.  
  
          Daenerys held her hands together at her waist. She seemed timid and meek, but not fearful, not quite. She had seemed more frightened in the presence of her brother. Lucas wondered just how cruelly Viserys must’ve treated Daenerys for her to be more at ease with a stranger than with her own kin.  
  
          _Viserys is in the past now,_ Lucas thought, quelling his revulsion. _Daenerys is where she belongs._ _  
_  
          Daenerys’s gaze was cast out the glass window at their side. She watched the distant reflection of the golden sun as it hovered above the vast, blue sea. It was the middle of the evening. The sun would sink from the sky in less than a few hours.  
  
          Their palanquin tilted upwards as the guardsmen bearing it began ascending a tall hill. Lucas pinned his right arm against the wall, preventing himself from falling into Daenerys’s lap. Daenerys looked to him when she noticed his movement. “Are we leaving Volantis?” she asked softly.  
  
          Lucas shook his head. “We’re going to my manse on the south edge of the city, on Ivory Hill,” he told her.  
  
          Daenerys looked to the window once more. They let the silence return.  
  
          Eventually, the palanquin leveled. Lucas let his right arm rest at his side. Daenerys looked back to him. “You said Orello is your name, my lord?” she asked.  
  
          Lucas shook his head again. “That’s a false name I use here in Essos. Lucas Velaryon is my true name.”  
  
          Daenerys gave him a curious look. “I see. Well ... my name is Daenerys. I don’t know if Viserys ever bothered to tell you.”  
  
          “I know your name. I knew it long before I met your brother. _Daenerys Targaryen.”_ _  
_  
          Lucas’s voice hung on her name, breathing the words a little slower than the ones before it. As for Daenerys, she seemed to pay no mind to his. She did not recognize his house. It seemed Viserys did not teach her much history outside of her own family’s. But it mattered not. It simply gave Lucas the chance to present his family to her. He would save that for later, for the more lavish environment that such a revelation truly deserved.  
  
          “Did Viserys tell you why I purchased you from him?” Lucas asked.  
  
          “He told me I’m to be your bride.”  
  
          “Does that make you nervous? You can be honest.”  
  
          Daenerys held on the question for a moment. “Yes,” she admitted.  
  
          “There’s no shame in that. But you’ve no reason to be.” Lucas joined Daenerys in gazing upon the sun. “I’ve centuries of ancestors watching me today,” he mused.  
  
          “Is this day important to your family?” Daenerys asked.  
  
          “No. But you are.”  
  
          Daenerys turned her head towards him. She was visibly confused, her silver eyebrows lowered. “What do you mean?”  
  
          That moment, the palanquin was eased to the ground, and the single door on its side swung open. Tobas Bideer, Lucas’s middle-aged steward with balding, salt-and-pepper hair and deep lines in his face, poked his head inside and looked to Lucas. “Welcome home, my lord,” he said. When his head turned and his gaze found Daenerys, his eyes widened and bulged. “My lady.”  
  
          A few minutes later, Lucas strode through the halls of his manse with Daenerys following close behind and his steward at the far rear. Daenerys’s eyes wandered as they walked, her head turning from side to side as she took in the sight of the grand abode. Teal sashes adorned every pair of curtains, and the same coat of arms of a silver seahorse on a field of sea green adorned all the shields and tapestries hanging from the walls. They soon passed by a doorway to the kitchen, where billowing steam and mouth-watering smells emanated from within.  
  
          “It may not be the castle those of our blood and birth deserve, but it’s the best we’ll have for now,” Lucas remarked.  
  
          “We deserve better than _this?”_ Daenerys asked with disbelief.  
  
          Lucas smiled and chuckled. “Yes, we do. I suppose that seems a strange thought to you.”  
  
          “Viserys always said we deserved better. This is what I imagined ‘better’ was.”  
  
          Lucas’s smile slipped away. “You’d be amazed by the homes the Usurper took from us,” he grumbled, his mind souring with thoughts of the fat drunkard that now sat on the Iron Throne. “Driftmark is a bit dour, but _Gods_ is High Tide grandiose. And your family’s home? The Red Keep? There’s nothing in the world like it.”  
  
          Moments later, they arrived in a small dining hall. The long table squared in the room’s center was lined with chairs, but the chair at the far north end was larger and more lavish than the others. It was the lord’s seat. It and one of the chairs next to it had a knife and fork rolled in a fine, white fabric placed on the table before them.  
  
          Lucas turned his head towards Daenerys, who stood beside him in the doorway. “Are you hungry?” he asked.  
  
          Daenerys looked to him and nodded eagerly.  
  
          “Seat your lady, Tobas,” Lucas commanded him.  
  
          Tobas hurried over to the chair adjacent to the lord’s seat and pulled it a couple paces backwards. “Here, my lady.” After Daenerys sat down, Tobas pushed her closer to the table. “Are you hot, my lady? I could fetch a fan and cool you.”  
  
          Daenerys gave the steward a meek, clueless look. It was overtly clear that she was not yet accustomed to servants waiting on her.  
  
          “I think she’s alright, Tobas, thank you,” Lucas told him, rescuing Daenerys from her uncertainty.  
  
          Tobas nodded. “Of course, my lord.” He swiftly placed Lucas in the lord’s seat just as he had placed Daenerys. When he finished, he bowed away and backpedaled to his proper station in the northwest corner of the room.  
  
          “Mister Bideer here has been with me all my life,” Lucas said as he eyed the steward. “He and the others here were the few servants who followed my father and fled to Essos with us.”  
  
          “An easy decision, my lord,” Tobas said. He smiled at Daenerys when she looked at him over her shoulder. “The Usurper is no king of mine. And Volantis is a beautiful city. Wonderful to retire in.”  
  
          “He’s been like family to me. He and the other two here,” Lucas said.  
  
          Daenerys turned back to Lucas. Confusion colored her gaze. “What did you mean when you said I’m important to your family?” she asked.  
  
          “Daenerys, I’m a Velaryon. House Velaryon has been bannermen to House Targaryen for centuries. My family aided yours in Aegon’s Conquest, and we supported you during the forsaken rebellion that sent us all here. My father fought in that war beside your brother Rhaegar. I still have the letter he wrote me after the Usurper slayed Rhaegar at the Trident. When Rhaegar died, my father returned to the Capital. Your father Aerys commanded him to escort your mother Rhaella and Viserys to Dragonstone. He was to safeguard them till the war’s end. I joined you all there in Dragonstone. When the Usurper’s brother came after us there, we’d already heard how those monsters slaughtered Rhaegar’s wife and her babes. My father and Ser Willem Darry decided that the best chance for any of us surviving was to flee Westeros. I was a boy of only ten years.”  
  
          Lucas’s eyes floated into a vacant gaze as he recalled that night that was now so long past. It was a night he would never forget.  
  
          “I remember the last time I saw your mother,” he said. “She was heavy with you. She was worried, but resilient, for yours and Viserys’s sake. She and Viserys boarded a different ship than my father and me. We’d loaded Driftmark’s and Dragonstone’s treasuries and heirlooms into the cargo of our carrack. It was for all of us to survive on, but a terrible storm separated our ship from yours. I’d never seen a storm like that one, and still never have since. My father was certain you were all dead. We found scores of shipwrecks. We thought yours was among them. We would’ve searched for you if we’d known otherwise.”  
  
          “My mother died birthing me,” Daenerys told him.  
  
          “I feared as much. I’m sorry. Mine died when I was young too.”  
  
          Daenerys’s gaze fell to the floor. “I never knew her.” Suddenly, her gaze flicked back up again. “But I knew Ser Willem,” she said, nodding. “He took care of Viserys and me at the house with the red door in Braavos, when we were little.”  
  
          “What happened to him?”  
  
          “He took sick when I was twelve. He died a few months later.”  
  
          “My father died the same way,” Lucas said. “You and I have interwoven fates, Daenerys. We were meant to wed. We’re two sides of the same coin. ‘One side blue as the ocean, the other red as blood. The dragon of the sea and the dragon of the sky.’” Those had been Lucas’s father’s words, after it was learned that Queen Rhaella carried a girl in her belly. His father had not been one to daydream, but he often did after that news. He was never going to rest till his son and heir had a Targaryen wife, as his own father had before him, and his father’s father, and so on and so on. _He can rest now,_ Lucas thought to himself.  
  
          Lucas’s two maidservants Elayna Tavner and Clare Chaembers entered. Both women were middle-aged and had soft brown eyes and long brown hair. Clare was noticeably older than Elayna, with more wrinkles on her face and more white in her hair. Clare carried two identical plates of food, each with a single serving of bread, cabbage, cheese, and meat. Elayna carried a glass jug in each hand, one filled with water, the other with a red wine. Elayna took in the sight of Daenerys with awe. Clare was more composed, wearing a motherly smile from ear to ear.  
  
          “This is Elayna Tavner,” Lucas said, pointing to the younger woman. “And this is Clare Chaembers,” he said, pointing to the elder.  
  
          Clare placed the plates before them, first Lucas, then Daenerys. “Here, my lady,” she said with warm affection.  
  
          Lucas all but knew that Clare had to intensely focus on being proper and resist the temptation to call Daenerys _‘sweetheart’_ and kiss the top of her head. She had always been an affectionate woman. She had in many ways taken the place of Lucas’s mother after her passing.  
  
          “Can I ... truly ... have all of this?” Daenerys asked, eyeing her food.  
  
          “Well of course, my lady,” Clare said sweetly.  
  
          “‘All of this?’” Lucas parroted her, confused. “Your plate isn’t exactly overflowing.”  
  
          Daenerys paused. “Viserys had only let me eat scraps,” she said. “He said he didn’t want me ‘getting fat.’”  
  
          “Of course he did,” Lucas grumbled beneath his breath. “Well, your food won’t be rationed here,” he said. “I think you’re old enough to know how much you ought to eat.”  
  
          Elayna filled Lucas’s cup with wine. She then approached Daenerys with wide, captivated eyes. “Water or wine, my lady?” she asked with a raspy voice, nearly without breath. Despite her middle age, Elayna still revered Targaryens with the same wonder from when she was a young girl being regaled with stories of Aegon’s Conquering and the Dance of Dragons. She’d been fantasizing of being able to serve Daenerys for years.  
  
          “The water’s been boiled and iced,” Lucas remarked. “It won’t make you ill.”  
  
          “Water,” Daenerys said, giving the maid a courteous nod and smile.  
  
          Elayna’s hands visibly shook as she poured water into Daenerys’s glass. Daenerys cocked her head and looked to her. “Are you alright?” she asked.  
  
          “Oh, yes, my lady, I’m perfectly fine,” Elayna hurriedly assured her. “Don’t you worry about me.”  
  
          “She’s nervous,” Lucas interjected on her behalf. “We’ve dreamt of reuniting you with us ever since we first heard rumors of you and Viserys being alive. Having you here is those dreams come true. Elayna, Clare, and Tobas will all serve you now, just as they serve me. They’ll do anything you ask. Brush your hair, file your nails, cook your meals, wash your clothes. Anything. You’re their lady now.”  
  
          Daenerys’s throat shifted with a heavy gulp. “Thank you,” she murmured, just above the edge of hearing.  
  
          “It’s our pleasure, my lady,” Clare told her.  
  
          “No thanks are needed,” Lucas said. “Such is expected for those of our birth.” He unrolled the fabric from around his knife and fork and took them in each hand. “Come now. Let’s eat.”  
  
          The sound of silver clinking on plates filled the room as Lucas and Daenerys began their supper. The maids departed through the doorway they’d entered from. Elayna frantically whispered in Clare’s ear as they left, while Clare simply nodded and let the younger maid voice her own thrill and excitement. They would return whenever Lucas had Tobas fetch them to retrieve their dirtied plates and utensils.  
  
          Despite her evident hunger, Daenerys picked at her plate like a proper lady, slicing her meat into small cutlets before eating them.  
  
          “We both have the blood of Old Valyria in our veins, do you know that?” Lucas asked after drinking from his cup. He had been admiring the sight of Daenerys’s Valyrian traits, the silver of her hair and the violet of her eyes. “Both of our families descend from that motherland. I’d have the same color of your hair and eyes, but I’m a half-blood. My mother was a Tarly.”  
  
          “Does that displease you?” Daenerys asked.  
  
          Lucas shook his head. “There’s no shame in marrying outside the blood. Your brother Rhaegar wedded a Martell. Still ... it’s enchanting to see a Valyrian as pure as you.” Many Volantene nobles had traits of the blood of Old Valyria, but Lucas cared not for them. They were a vile people of a vile city. But Daenerys was of _his_ people, of _his_ land. Her beauty was an untainted one.  
  
          They returned to eating. Eventually, Daenerys stopped and took on a puzzled expression, much like the look of a child that had been told something they did not fully understand. Lucas soon noticed. “What’s on your mind?” he asked.  
  
          “The Usurper ... does he know we’re here in Volantis? Won’t he want both of us dead?”  
  
          “Perhaps,” Lucas said with a shrug. “But his grubby fingers have little grasp on Essos,” he spat. “And his master of whisperers, the Spider, isn’t the ally he thinks he is. We aren’t friendless in this world, Daenerys. I’m not the only one who knows that we were meant to wed. Our families have intermarried for hundreds of years, and we’re going to keep that legacy alive.” Lucas leaned forward in his seat and glared daggers at her. “And we _belong_ in Westeros. We _belong_ in the Red Keep,” he blazed, his voice rising, swept up in the swirling tempest of his own resolve. “I am not yet sure _when_ , and I am not yet sure _how_ , but our families _will_ rule Westeros again. The legacy of the dragon will not die in this city.”  
  
          A little over an hour later, Lucas and Daenerys retired to his bedchamber. The chamber wasn’t overly large, but it was grand. Its lavish furniture was lined with blue silk and draped with black furs, including his bed, which was a size fit for a king. His desk, dresser and shelves were carved from dark wood. A crate covered with a small blanket sat on his desk. Tall candles burned around the room, offering sweet scents now and a source of light for later. They were lit by Tobas, who had retreated from the room with a knowing smile when Lucas announced that he and Daenerys were retiring for the night.  
  
          On the wall across from his bed hung the largest tapestry in the manse. It depicted a vast fleet of ships, spearheaded by Corlys Velaryon’s _Sea Snake,_ engaging in a massive naval battle and wrestling for control of the Stepstones islands. The tapestry had previously hung in Driftmark’s castle High Tide before Lucas’s father had taken it.  
  
          Lucas unfastened his sheathed sword from his belt and hung it on its rack on the wall beside his bed. Daenerys stood facing the bedchamber’s tall, sole window. It directly overlooked the Summer Sea, where the remaining third of the setting sun painted its golden light over the sparkling water. The sunlight glowed around Daenerys’s silhouette.  
  
          “Beautiful,” Lucas said.  
  
          Daenerys glanced over her shoulder. “Truly.”  
  
          Lucas shook his head as he walked towards her. “Not that. You.”  
  
          Daenerys’s fair cheeks bloomed rosy red. She shyly whipped her head away and looked back to the window.  
  
          Lucas laughed. He now stood behind her. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. He reached towards her and put his hand on her upper arm. The moment his hand touched her flesh, Daenerys suddenly flinched, her entire body tightening as though she was struck by lightning. Lucas pulled his hand back, mortified.  
  
          No longer did he think her meekness to be merely typical of her youth. There were deep scars aching inside her. The manner of scars that did not show on flesh.  
  
          “Did Illyrio ever strike you?” Lucas asked.  
  
          Daenerys still faced the window. “No,” she said.  
  
          The realization clicked in Lucas’s mind. Illyrio did not seem the sort of man to beat a girl, especially not one he aimed to sell. He was not so foolish, nor so cruel. But another man was. The man who was more viper than dragon. _“Viserys,”_ Lucas thought aloud. _  
_  
          Daenerys said nothing.  
  
          Lucas sighed. “Face me,” he commanded.  
  
          Daenerys slowly turned till her shoulders faced his. But though her body faced him, her gaze did not. It remained fallen to the floor.  
  
          “You will never be struck again, Daenerys,” Lucas vowed. “You will be queen someday. Queens are not struck.”  
  
          Daenerys looked up and met Lucas’s eyes. At long last, a small smile curled around her lips. “You’re not like him,” she said.  
  
          “No. I’m not. I only spoke with your brother for a short time, but I could see what he was like. Tactless. Cruel. Weak. And his gall to sell you like a slave ... I would never serve him.”  
  
          “He called himself ‘the Dragon.’ But he wasn’t one, was he?”  
  
          Lucas grabbed and held of each of Daenerys’s hands. She did not flinch. “There’s only two true living dragons, Daenerys,” he said, smiling with her. “You ... and I.” With that, he leaned forward, tilted his head, and captured her lips with his. Daenerys shut her eyes. Lucas did the same.  
  
          Daenerys’s lips were soft and warm with a hint of moisture, a delight to Lucas’s senses. In unison, a single, long breath poured from each of their noses. He kissed his bride gently at first, but then playfully and passionately, lightly sucking and pulling at her lips. There was an audible smack each time their lips parted, only for Lucas to swiftly bring them together again. Daenerys returned his kiss and moved her lips in rhythm with his as best she could. It was clear she had no experience in romantic kissing, but Lucas did not mind. It did not hinder the desire swelling inside his chest.  
  
          Yearning for more, Lucas brought his tongue into their kiss, sweeping it over Daenerys’s full lips before every smooch. When Daenerys felt that touch of his tongue, she returned that gesture too, as her own tongue shyly came out to greet his. Lucas’s smoothly brushed over hers, feeling slickness and heat. Each touch was a thrill. Lucas’s nerves were buzzing. Growing more and more desirous, Lucas locked his wide-open lips with Daenerys’s and pushed his tongue into her mouth, so that he could feel more of those addictive sensations.  
  
          Eventually, Lucas broke their kiss. Their eyes met again. Daenerys was aglow, her violet eyes shining. Lucas gazed deeply into them as his mind swirled with thoughts.  
  
          Theirs would perhaps be a strange marriage. Lucas had been taught what all Westerosi boys were, that a wife was her husband’s domain, and that he ought to lord over her. Yet if Daenerys would someday be his queen, then who would lord over who? Would they lord over each other? Were they to be equals? Lucas was not sure. If they were to figure it out along the way, bit by bit, then so be it. They certainly had plenty of time. And Lucas did know one place he was expected to lead the way. It was there, where they stood: the bedchamber.  
  
          Without words, Lucas raised Daenerys’s arms and pulled her gown upwards, lifting it off her head and then casting it aside. He was shocked to discover that she wore nothing beneath it, but that shock was soon burned away by a blazing lust. His heart was hammering in his chest.  
  
          Daenerys was an even more perfect sight in the nude. Her pale figure was tight and slim, with a flat stomach and slender waist, and her breasts were pert and perky, with small, pink nipples. Lucas placed his hands on her bare hips. She was incredibly warm to his touch, as though her flesh overlaid an intense inner heat. Lucas had never once felt a person so warm, not even one that was ill with a fever. The blood of the dragon was strong inside her.  
  
          As Lucas’s leering gaze lingered on Daenerys’s bust, he raised one of his hands and reached for it. He lifted her left breast in his palm as if weighing it, admiring its softness and its warmth. He closed his hand around it and brushed his thumb over her nipple. The little nub was somehow even warmer than the rest of her. It slowly stiffened in response to his touch. Daenerys watched with a shy but desirous smile as Lucas fondled her. “Shouldn’t we be wedded first?” she asked. Her words did not sound to be some desperate attempt at sabotaging the moment, but rather a genuine, curious question.  
  
          Lucas let his groping hand fall back to her hips. He lifted his gaze from her breasts and looked into her eyes. “We will be, soon,” he told her. “On the morrow, if I can arrange it. But it’ll only be a formality. After tonight, you and I will be one.”  
  
          Daenerys’s shy smile widened. Lucas shut his eyes and kissed her again, but only briefly. When he pulled away, he took a single step away from her and began swiftly shedding his clothes. First came his doublet and his undershirt. His chest was muscular and lightly haired. Then came his trousers and his breeches. His stiff cock sprang free. He was well-endowed, lacking neither thickness nor length. His member bounced lightly, throbbing with the beat of his thumping heart.  
  
          Lucas and Daenerys unfastened and kicked off their footwear together. Then there they stood, bare as babes, two descendants of the dragonriders of old. Though Lucas’s Tarly heritage made him not quite look it, few alive had more Valyrian blood coursing through their veins than them. There could be no more fitting of a union.  
  
          Lucas grabbed Daenerys’s hips again and brought her closer in his arms, bringing their bodies together. Her soft, pale breasts squished against his hard, sunkissed chest. His hands roamed her body, sampling all the many pleasures it bore. He traveled the curve of her waist to her hips. He squeezed her arse. And finally, he teased his forefinger along the moist, slim slit of her cunt. As Lucas touched that treasure between Daenerys’s legs, he very quickly realized that he could wait no longer before looking upon it.  
  
          He took her hand and walked her to his bed, where he gestured over it. “Sit,” he said. She obeyed.  
  
          Daenerys sat on the edge of his bed with her legs slightly parted. Lucas came closer and at last gazed upon her crotch. Her tiny cunt was a tight, pink slit tucked away into a deep, puffy cleft, crowned by the slim hood of her clitoris. Her cunt hairs were trimmed down to a soft, silver-blonde stubble, plenty left to enjoy the sight and feel of it but short enough so that it did not conceal her slit. Whether Daenerys had groomed herself or one of Illyrio’s servants had groomed her, Lucas did not know. It mattered little, so long as grooming was all that was done.  
  
          He pressed his hands against her inner thighs and opened her legs wider. The flesh of her cunt shifted open with them, revealing a bit more of her shy, pink flower. It was glistening with moisture, and a stirring scent drifted from it to Lucas’s nose. He spread her little inner lips with his thumb and forefinger, and there he found her maidenhead. That was all he needed to see to put his mind at ease. No one had sullied her. Nothing had come between them. Her maidenhead was his to claim, as it should be.  
  
          But first he would taste her.  
  
          Shutting his eyes, Lucas leaned over and gently kissed her gash, smooching it like a lover. That did not last long. He then kissed her with his tongue, sliding it through her hot slit from top to bottom, and then in reverse, again and again. Her inner flesh had a somewhat sour and salty taste, and yet it was a delight like no other. Lucas tilted his head and sucked at her puffy cunt, drawing one of her lips into his mouth and rolling it. Above him, Daenerys mewled like a kitten. When he sucked her clitoris, her mewls grew louder and sharper. Lucas was certain she had never known pleasure like this.  
  
          Lucas’s manhood ached in his trousers. It felt like steel. When his desire for his own pleasure became overbearing, he finally pulled himself away, letting her cunt slip free from his sucking lips. Daenerys’s flower had bloomed and become sodden wet when he opened his eyes and looked upon it again. He suspected that its newfound moisture was from more than his saliva.  
  
          Lucas stood straight again and admired the sight of his lover. He stroked Daenerys’s thighs and lost himself in thought as ideas raced through his mind. If this night would be among those that Lucas would always look back upon, then he wanted it to be grand. Gods willing, he and Daenerys would someday hold more power than any other. Their first night knowing each other deserved to be more of a feast than a meal. Tonight, Lucas would make his manse a pleasure castle. If they could not have had a proper wedding, they would at least have had a proper bedding.  
  
          “What should I do?” Daenerys asked, pulling him from his thoughts.  
  
          Lucas cupped her cheek. “Just do as I say. I’ll lead the way.”  
  
          His aching cock was pointing towards her cunt, but Lucas saw no need to deflower her just yet. There were yet more ways he could enjoy her before the night’s main course. “Come with me,” he said. He took Daenerys’s hand again and walked with her to his cushioned armchair in the far corner of the room. Still holding her hand, he turned to face her and let himself fall into the chair. Though his intent seemed blatantly obvious to himself, Daenerys gave him a blank look, clueless of what to do. Lucas wondered just how little she knew of lovemaking.  
  
          “Kneel,” he said. Daenerys promptly lowered herself to her knees, bringing her head closer to Lucas’s crotch. Daenerys seemed to catch on then. Her eyes fell and transfixed themselves to his throbbing member. Her full lips were tantalizingly close to his crown. Lucas had to swallow his mouthful of saliva before he could speak again. “Kiss it.”  
  
          Daenerys puckered her lips and pressed them against the side of his crown, and then pulled them away with a soft-sounding smooch. A tickle of pleasure shot through Lucas’s length. She gave another gentle kiss to the other side of his crown. Her tongue slid across her lips, giving them a little more moisture before returning to smothering his cockhead with slow, affectionate kisses. Each kiss brought Lucas a small bloom of warm pleasure atop his flesh. A drop of pre-seed soon oozed from the slit of his crown. He and Daenerys noticed it at once. “Use your tongue,” he said.  
  
          Daenerys lolled her tongue from her mouth and brushed it from his base to his tip, lapping away his early seed. She tilted her head and pleasured Lucas with sideways licks, stroking the flat of her tongue against the sensitive underside of his cock, just beneath the flare of his crown. Her movements were experimental and clumsy, but Lucas hardly cared. It was pleasure and thrill all the same. Daenerys explored his stiff flesh with her mouth open wide, drooling a few ropes of spit onto his length. Her licks and kisses soon had his cock shining with a sheen of her saliva. More beads of pre-seed leaked from him, only to be licked away same as the first.  
  
          With her tongue slathering his cock, Daenerys turned her gaze upwards and looked to Lucas with big, innocent eyes. The violet of them glittered in the candlelight. “Is this good?” she asked when her tongue left the last of his length.  
  
          “Yes,” Lucas said, sighing and nodding. “Now ... put your lips around it.”  
  
          Daenerys grabbed the root of his manhood with her girlish hands, keeping it steady. She lowered her head and closed her mouth around his swollen crown. She sank her puckered lips a few inches down his length, and then slowly pulled them up and away. Lucas groaned as she repeated the action. The feel of it was intensely pleasurable, a toe-curling delight. Her full, moist lips were the perfect pleasure, the perfect flesh to seal around and suck on his hard, throbbing cock. But Daenerys never pushed her lips further than just past his crown. Lucas wanted more.  
  
          He reached for Daenerys and gathered a fistful of her smooth, silver tresses. He gently pressed down on the back of her head, pushing her sucking lips down his cock. He pushed them further than they had gone before, till Daenerys coughed as his crown prodded at the back of her throat. Lucas heeded that spot. He brought Daenerys back up and then pushed her head down again to just above that sweet spot, and then did it all again. He bobbed her head on his cock, directing her moist, sealed lips to slide up and down his length, using the roots of her hair as a handhold to leisurely pleasure himself with her mouth.  
  
          His manhood was now steeped in her saliva. Sloppy sounds slipped from Daenerys’s mouth as she sucked him, _slurps_ and _urks._ Lucas threw back his head and shut his eyes for a moment, letting the pleasure and sounds dominate his senses.  
  
          He soon realized that Daenerys was herself bobbing her head more than he was directing her to. Inside her mouth, the flat of her tongue now pressed against the underside of his cock, adding yet another intense pleasure to delight him with. She was giving effort to please him.  
  
          Before long, the blissful heat in Lucas’s loins grew into a blazing fire. Daenerys’s sucking lips brought him to the edge of orgasm, and he had to fight with all his will to act. As the muscles in his groin tensed, Lucas snapped his eyes open and looked down to Daenerys. “Stop, stop,” he said under a whispery breath as he tightened his fingers in her hair and held her utterly still. He did not yet pull her mouth from his cock. He knew he would spill his seed if her lips rose one more time along his length.  
  
          When the throbs of his cock finally slowed, Lucas eased Daenerys’s mouth off his length, gently guiding her sealed, puckered lips upwards till they came free from his swollen crown with an audible _pop._ Lucas shuddered.  
  
          Daenerys watched him, waiting for his direction. Lucas stood to his feet and urged Daenerys onto hers. He walked back to his bed with her. “Lie down,” he said.  
  
          Daenerys crawled into his bed. Before joining her, Lucas made his way to the window. The sun was gone, and the sea was dark. He shut the window’s curtains and turned to his bed. Daenerys lay atop it at the center, her head against the black furs, her smooth legs parted. Her pale body seemed aglow in the warm candlelight. Lucas could see the glisten on her pink flower from afar.  
  
          He crawled into his bed with Daenerys and kneeled beside her. He grabbed one of his thick, down-stuffed pillows and gently lifted Daenerys’s head just far enough to slip it beneath her. Lucas then moved downwards and put his knees between her open legs, which opened wider as he came closer. His thick cock slapped down atop her puffy mound. Her silver cunt hairs tickled his sensitive crown. He felt harder than he had ever been. He was aching for her.  
  
          Lucas grabbed his cock and lowered it. He prodded his tip against the moist lips of her virginal slit.  
  
          It was time.  
  
          With a slow drive of his hips, his crown parted her slit and pushed inside, claiming her maidenhead. Her folds clung to him as he pushed through, wrapping him in a heat like he’d never felt. He eased himself further and further inside her, inch by inch, till his cock was sheathed to her very hilt and his crown kissed the entrance to her womb.  
  
          They sighed together, their flesh fully joined. At last, they knew each other as a man and woman. As a husband and wife. As a Velaryon king and Targaryen queen.  
  
          Lucas looked down to their joined flesh and partly withdrew his cock. In the sheen of moisture on his manhood was now a smear of crimson. Daenerys’s maiden’s blood. Lucas had truly taken her.  
  
          Swelling with passion, he leaned down and captured her in another deep kiss. “You’re mine now,” he told her, his words soft but assertive.  
  
          “I’m yours,” she said.  
  
          That reciprocation made Lucas’s lust boil. A grin spread around his lips as he kissed her deeper. He would wait no longer. “It’s time to put our heir in your belly,” he whispered.  
  
          “Alright,” Daenerys whispered back.  
  
          Lucas broke their kiss and rose again to his knees. He wanted to enjoy the sight of her while he fucked her.  
  
          He began with slow, smooth thrusts, pushing and pulling his stiffness inside her cunt. The pleasure of that alone was enough to draw another long, pleasured sigh from his lungs. Daenerys was _sweltering_ on the inside, _slick_ and _hot._ She was tense inside as well, no less snug and silky than she was wet and warm. Her cunt was coiled tightly around Lucas’s cock; he felt an intense friction with even the slightest of movements. Her inner flesh was _squeezing_ him.  
  
          Daenerys took her bottom lip between her teeth in what looked like a half-grimace. Lucas was not sure if she was suffering any pain, but if she was, he was confident it would be gone before long. Such was any girl’s first time being bedded.  
  
          Despite the disparity in their size, the slickness of her flesh allowed her tiny, slit cunt to take his large, thick cock with ease. Lucas grabbed the small of Daenerys’s waist and held her firmly in place, smoothing their lovemaking and ensuring that his manhood entered her straight and steady. And while slick and welcoming, her warm walls still fit him tightly, smothering him with heat and wetness. Her slim inner lips clung to his length with every inward push and every outward pull, and his girth widened her inner walls every time he thrusted up and through her. His flared crown was gripped tightest inside her, wrapped in her hot flesh. It was an incredible pleasure, and Lucas could only groan as he enjoyed the sensations Daenerys’s body gave him.  
  
          He soon hastened his pace, fucking her with faster thrusts. He lowered his body and jabbed his arms into the furs on each side of her, allowing himself a better angle to take her with. He pounded her, crashing his body into hers. Daenerys’s pale breasts bounced on her chest, the soft flesh rising and falling in smooth waves. Lucas put one of his hands on her chest and groped her tits as he fucked her, squeezing them between his fingers. They radiated a growing warmth. Her tight cunt felt hotter too as time passed. Daenerys moaned with Lucas, her expression growing softer and lustier. As her cheeks bloomed red and pleasure gradually colored her face, she was even more beautiful a sight to his eyes.  
  
          Lucas’s cock throbbed faster again. His legs tightened. His seed would soon spill. Yet he was still not finished with the night. Not even close.  
  
          As soon as the idea struck him, Lucas slowed himself to a stop, reached an arm under Daenerys, and lifted her up. His cock wetly slipped from her cunt as he spun them both around and moved to the top of his bed. He sat with his back against the headpost and took Daenerys into his lap, having her straddle him with her knees down on each side. Lucas leaned forward and took the stiff, pink teat of her left breast between his lips. He suckled her like a babe, hollowing his cheeks. When he pulled his mouth away with a _pop,_ her breast fell and bounced with a fleshy jiggle. Below, his cock stood tall like a tower at his crotch, pointing upwards at Daenerys’s pink cunt, still twitching from the endless pleasure it had been delighting in.  
  
          Lucas grabbed her waist and aligned their sexes. Realizing his desire, Daenerys began lowering herself. Their breath caught when his flared crown prodded against her moist slit. His member had only been barren for a short moment, but Lucas already craved to have it sheathed again inside her. With another push downwards, Lucas’s cock parted her cunt and pushed open her warm, wet tunnel as it rose inside her. Daenerys brought herself lower still and took Lucas to her hilt, joining her groin to his. Her pink lips kissed his crotch as their shorthairs combined into a thicket of silver and brown.  
  
          Lucas looked up, into Daenerys’s eyes. “Ride me,” he said.  
  
          Daenerys put her hands atop his strong shoulders. She slowly raised her body, pulling her warm cunt from his cock till only his crown was still clasped inside her snug slit, and then gently lowered herself back down, sheathing him to her hilt. It was experimental in nature. The next downward thrust was far less timid. She began bouncing atop his crotch, riding him like a steed. Lucas watched her breasts jiggle in his face.  
  
          The air of the bedchamber grew thick and heavy. Daenerys panted hot breaths from her open mouth. Her bouncing made a stray lock of silver hair fall and obscure her eyes. She swiftly brushed it behind her ear. Her face held no trace of a grimace as she rode him. If she had felt any pain when Lucas had first deflowered her, it was long gone now.  
  
          Her tight cunt stroked his cock up and down as her arse slapped into his groin. Lucas reached around her and squeezed her rump. The flesh was soft and supple, and he could sink his fingers into it with ease. He considered suckling one of her breasts, to enjoy both sides of her body, but he discarded the notion. Daenerys was bouncing far too fast, and he had no desire for her to slow herself. Beads of sweat now glistened across her nubile body, but her perspiration still paled in comparison to Lucas, who had lines of it trailing down his flesh.  
  
          Pleasure coursed through his body like fire through his veins. His cock twitched inside her tight tunnel of hot flesh. Lucas knew his end was nearing him again. He was almost ready to embrace that coming bliss, but there still just one more way he wanted to have Daenerys before he finished.  
  
          In one smooth flourish, Lucas leaned forward, let Daenerys slip from his arms and his manhood, and flipped her over onto all fours. He then rose to his knees behind her and grabbed the base of his cock. As Lucas scooted closer, he looked between the cheeks of Daenerys’s arse. He sought her slit, but his gaze caught on her arsehole. The little wrinkled rosebud was as pink as her cunt. Lucas was intrigued by it, but he gave it no more thought. He was to put a child in her. His manhood belonged elsewhere. After aiming himself, Lucas found Daenerys’s cunt with his crown. With a short drive of his hips, he penetrated her and pushed through, sheathing all of his cock inside her warmth.  
  
          Lucas spent no time at a gradual pace. He grabbed and held Daenerys’s shoulders as he took her fast from behind. He pulled her towards him with every thrust, making their bodies forcefully collide. His hips noisily clapped into her soft arse, filling his bedchamber with the sound of slapping flesh. Her small slit gaped to take his full girth and length, her hot flesh snugly wrapped around his cock. Her cunt was no less tight then than the first moment he was inside her.  
  
          Lucas grunted as he fucked her. Daenerys moaned below him, louder than before. Lusting for her, Lucas took her faster. The cheeks of her arse bounced from his powerful thrusts, and her breasts swayed beneath her. Lucas took her faster still. He pummeled her cunt with his cock, pushing his crown to the very hilt of her tunnel at the apex of every plunge, squeezing all his length into her hot flesh that he could manage. She would perhaps be a bit sore the following morning, but that was alright. This night was a special occasion. It merited some soreness.  
  
          Lucas gathered a fistful of her silver hair and tugged on it like a leash. He rutted Daenerys like a bitch, rocking her entire body with every sharp thrust, utterly dominating her. Lucas’s pleasure became an inferno in his loins. He could keep his end at bay no longer. But he would not finish inside Daenerys like a hound. He was a lord, not a beast. He wanted to kiss her during the end.  
  
          He withdrew from her cunt and clutched the root of his cock in a squeezing grip. “Flip over,” he said as he pushed his hand against her waist. Daenerys promptly rolled onto her back. Her eyes found his. She was breathing heavy, her mouth agape. She had worn herself out riding him. She would sleep well tonight. As would Lucas.  
  
          He put his knees down between her legs, just as he had before. Daenerys widened her legs as Lucas scooted closer, just as she had. Their lovemaking would end as it began.  
  
          He lowered himself atop her. They shut their eyes together as he took her into another deep kiss. With their lips joined, he guided his cock towards her slit. After his crown touched her slit, he pushed inside with ease. Lucas kept Daenerys locked in his passionate kiss as he made love to her. They moaned and groaned into each other’s mouths. Little time passed before Lucas’s end again came rushing. At last, he let his climax crash upon him.  
  
          Lucas’s pleasure ignited like a spark into a brazier. Bliss blazed within his very core. He groaned loudly and sheathed himself to Daenerys’s hilt as his cock began spurting his seed into her cunt. The first were more like jets than squirts. With as long as he had edged himself, his erupting orgasm never seemed to end. Ropes of his seed spurted inside her one after the other, till his lust was spent and her womb was filled.  
  
          When it was over, Lucas gently broke their kiss. He opened his eyes just as Daenerys opened hers. Her violet gaze was soft and affectionate. He cupped her cheek and brushed his thumb over her lower lip. When the last of his pleasure finally faded from his weary body, he took his body from hers and rose again to his knees. He looked down to her crotch. A few shed strands of brown were now nestled in the silver hairs around her slit. Between her pink lips, his cock had softened and shrunk. It was smeared with white, slick from Daenerys’s now-sloppy, well-fucked cunt. Lucas was certain that a sea of his seed rested within her womb. He hoped it would quicken inside her.  
  
          As he pulled out the last of his cock, a sticky rope of white stretched from his crown to her cunt till it broke and fell. With Daenerys’s next exhale of breath, her hole suddenly drooled a river of his thick seed. Lucas spent only a short moment admiring the sight of it. He grabbed another pillow from the top of the bed and wedged it beneath her arse, raising her lower half above her head.  
  
          “What’s the pillow for?” Daenerys asked softly.  
  
          “Keeping my seed inside you,” Lucas answered.  
  
          He left his bed and stood to his feet. He went to the window, swiped aside its curtains, and swung it open. The bedchamber’s hot, thick air promptly poured outside, taking the smell of sweat and lust with it. The ocean’s water was sparkling under the moonlight.  
  
          Lucas returned to Daenerys and lay beside her. He held her nearest hand and rested his other atop her stomach, just below her navel, above her womb. He did not dare to pull the furs over them. It was far too hot for that. And Lucas wanted to see her nakedness.  
  
          Lucas dreamt during the night.  
  
          _A red star bled in the night sky. It dwarfed all others around it in brightness. A shadow suddenly passed beneath it, making the star flicker. Then a second shadow darted by, and then a third. The shadows plummeted towards the earth, growing in size till Lucas could make out their shapes in the darkness. They were dragons, colossal in size, with wings that could stretch across a castle. They roared and spouted gouts of fire. They did not slow their descent. They raced towards Lucas, but he could not move his feet. He could not save himself. And yet he felt no fear. Just as the dragons were about to crash atop him and break him beneath them, they spread their wings and drastically slowed their descent. Their feet broke their fall, sending a shockwave through the earth as their claws sank deep into the dirt in a triangle around Lucas._ _  
  
          Only then did Lucas glance down and realize that he was not alone. He carried Daenerys in his arms. She was sound asleep. Her belly was swollen with his child.  
  
          The dragons seemed to have paid Lucas no mind when they landed, but now their heads snaked towards him, one by one, till each glared at him with glowing gazes._  
  
          Lucas’s eyes snapped open. He had dreamt of those three dragons many times before ... but they had never come so close, and they had never looked him in his eyes.  
  
          Bright sunlight bled from beneath the window’s curtains. Lucas and Daenerys both lay facing it. His arms were wrapped around her waist, his hands clasped over hers at her stomach. His head was just behind hers, resting in a bed of her soft hair. He had taken the pillow from beneath her bottom just before they went to sleep. A small pool of his seed splotched the bed furs, but Lucas did not care. It was nothing the maids could not scrub clean.  
  
          Lucas yawned and brought Daenerys closer in his arms. He shut his eyes and rested for a little longer, but he knew full well that he could spend all day in bed if he allowed himself to. He released Daenerys from his arms and scooted to the other side of their bed. He stood to his feet and walked around, to the window. He pulled open the curtains and winced as he was steeped in sunlight.  
  
          Lucas stretched and yawned again. When he turned around, he saw Daenerys watching him from their bed, smiling warmly. “How long have you been awake?” he asked.  
  
          “A while.”  
  
          “Why didn’t you tell me you’d awoken? I would’ve let you free.”  
  
          “I liked having your arms around me.”  
  
          Lucas smiled and chuckled. He sat beside Daenerys on the edge of their bed, leaned over, and gave her an affectionate kiss. Daenerys exhaled a smooth breath from her nose onto his lips. When Lucas pulled away, he stayed beside her and rested his hand on her hip.  
  
          He sat there for some time in the peace and quiet. Longer than he realized. “Do you dream often?” he asked as his mind wandered.  
  
          “Yes,” Daenerys said.  
  
          “Do you dream of dragons?”  
  
          “Yes,” she said again.  
  
          Lucas nodded, unsurprised. “That’s our blood. The blood of Old Valyria. I can’t imagine how intense the dreams must be for you.”  
  
          A knocking came from the door. Lucas and Daenerys looked towards it.  
  
          “My lord? My lady?” The voice was Tobas’s. “Are you alright?”  
  
          “Yes, Tobas,” Lucas called out. “We’re simply resting.”  
  
          “Very good, my lord. Shall I have Clare and Elayna begin preparing breakfast?”  
  
          “That would be lovely, thank you.” Lucas looked to Daenerys again and found her staring at him. “What?”  
  
          “They really respect you,” she said.  
  
          “I give them reason to.”  
  
          “Viserys fantasized of being like you,” Daenerys mused. “He wanted _so desperately_ to be this strong, confident king, respected by all around him ... but he could only play pretend. You ... it’s true for you.”  
  
          Lucas looked away, to the window. He shrugged off Daenerys’s flattery. “My father raised me well,” he said.  
  
          “I think he’d be proud of you.”  
  
          Lucas looked back to Daenerys. “I know your mother would be proud of you.”  
  
          Daenerys’s smile widened. Lucas leaned over and kissed her again. When he pulled away, he spent a moment gazing into her eyes.  
  
          Lucas left her side and returned to the window. New merchant ships were docking in Volantis’s ports. Lucas wondered how many of the sailors were Westerosi ... and then he wondered how many of them were loyal to the Usurper. As he thought of just how much work and hardship still lay before him, a sudden wave of tiredness washed over him.  
  
          Lucas glanced at Daenerys over his shoulder. She swung her feet over the edge of their bed and stretched her arms and legs. When her eyes found his, she noticed something was amiss. “What’s wrong?” she asked.  
  
          Lucas looked out the window again. “There’s still so much to be done ... and I’m not sure how we’re going to do it.”  
  
          “Do you mean ... Westeros?”  
  
          “Yes. Our fate isn’t here, Daenerys. This isn’t our home.”  
  
          “That’ll take war.”  
  
          “It might.”  
  
          “Viserys is going to try to take Westeros too.”  
  
          Lucas almost laughed. “He doesn’t matter,” he said, discarding her warning. “Let him dash himself upon King’s Landing’s stones. He can purchase any army he wants, he’ll still fail. Westeros was only ever conquered once, Daenerys, and it wasn’t an army that broke it.”  
  
          “What did?”  
  
          “I’ll show you,” Lucas said as he left the window.  
  
          He walked to the covered crate on his desk and picked it up. It took some effort, as the crate weighed more than seven stone. He approached Daenerys and set the crate on their bed beside her. He sat on the opposite side of it. While she watched, he pulled away the blanket that lay atop it, revealing three large, scaled eggs resting on a bed of silk. They seemed as though they were made of petrified rock, but they did not lack shine or color. The first from the left was blood-red with gold swirls and flecks, the second was blue with green, and the third was white with purple. All three were webbed with thin, motionless veins beneath their scales.  
  
          “Dragon eggs,” Lucas said. “They were in a vault in the depths below Dragonstone. They’re the only treasure from home I knew I couldn’t sell.”  
  
          “Do you know how to hatch them?” Daenerys asked, staring at the eggs.  
  
          Lucas shook his head. “No,” he said somberly. There was no sadder a thought than knowing that he possessed glorious beasts he knew not how to awaken.  
  
          Daenerys gingerly ran her fingers over the red scales of the egg closest to her. Suddenly, at her touch, its red and gold came alive and vibrant. The stone veins swelled and rippled into life, lightly coursing with the beat of a creature’s heart. Daenerys yanked her hand away, alarmed. She looked to Lucas. His mouth was agape.


	2. Chapter 2

**DAENERYS  
**  
          The morning after Dany’s first night with Lucas, after they broke fast, she was taken by him down into the city proper, where he found a _‘septon,’_ a priest who followed the Faith of the Seven. Then, after a pouch of coin exchanged hands, the septon took them to a small chamber with an altar. Dany wore a long cloak that Lucas had instructed her to wear, sewn by Clare. It was Dany’s _‘maiden’s cloak,’_ Lucas had explained. It was pitch black and emblazoned with the blood-red likeness of a dragon thrice-headed, the Targaryen sigil. After the septon had them say vows to each other, Lucas slipped the Targaryen cloak from Dany’s shoulders and replaced it with a Velaryon one, her _‘bride’s cloak,’_ blueish green and emblazoned with that same likeness of a silver seahorse that adorned so many coats of arms in the manse. Dany wore her bride’s cloak during the trip home.  
  
          And that was that. They were then husband and wife. Lucas’s words from their first night, _‘It’ll only be a formality,’_ rang true to Dany that morning. That first time they lay together had seemed far more passionate and meaningful than those strange vows and that awkward exchanging of cloaks.  
  
          When Dany slept that second night in the manse, lying on her side in bed with Lucas behind her, she clutched the dragon eggs against her belly. Lucas did not object. He knew what she felt for them.  
  
          Dany had grown swiftly and intensely attached to the eggs. It was her touch that had awoken them from their stone slumber. She had given them life, and that meant she was their mother. Dany did not know how she awoke the eggs, and Lucas did not know either, but both knew that they were bound to her in a way they were not bound to him. It felt to Dany like her soul was linked to theirs.  
  
          Dany dreamt of the dragons every night. Lucas said he did too, but that he dreamt of them in shadows, under only moonlight. Dany dreamt of them in clear day, under the sunlight, where she could marvel at their glory. One had scales like rubies, red and vibrant, and had wing flesh the color of gold. He was the biggest and most dominant of the brood, with the fiercest snarl that bared the longest teeth. The second had scales as bright blue as the Summer Sea and wings as green as growing grass. He was capricious and playful. He loved to soar just above the ocean, skimming his wings against the water and snatching up any creature of the sea that dared to swim too close to the surface. The third had scales like diamonds, milky white and brilliant, and wings of pale purple. It was a she-dragon, and she was the calmest and quietest of the brood. To Dany, the diamond dragon was the most dazzling sight of the three. Dany often dreamt of herself astride her, with Lucas astride the ruby dragon beside them.  
  
          Whenever Dany spoke of her dreams to Lucas, he always listened raptly. He had said that her dreams were more than fantasies, that she was seeing the future in them. And he had told her to start thinking of names for the dragons, because it would be her right to give them.  
  
          The day after they were wedded, Lucas commanded the maidservant to bathe Dany in their bedchamber while he and Tobas ran errands down in the city. Dany was nervous at first, but after the maids smoothly disrobed her and gently eased her into a wooden tub lined with thick linens and filled with hot water, her nerves were soon soothed.  
  
          Magister Illyrio’s servants had bathed her as well, and Dany hadn’t enjoyed it very much, but Elayna and Clare were nothing like them. Illyrio’s servants had been rough and crude with her, grooming her like she was a horse, and they never said a word to her. Elayna and Clare groomed her elegantly and tenderly, and they spoke sweetly and softly.  
  
          “Tend to the lady’s hair,” Clare said. Elayna did as her elder bid. She lathered something sudsy into Dany’s silver-blonde hair before soaking it in a small bucket of warm water and working it with her hands.  
  
          Elsewhere, Clare took a bathbrush with soft bristles and scrubbed Dany with gentle but firm strokes. When the bathbrush pressed into her left breast, Dany winced. Her bosom had become unusually tender that day, and she did not know why.  
  
          Clare noticed her wince. The maid’s hand fell still. “When did you last bleed, my lady?” she asked.  
  
          Dany looked to Clare, confused. “What?”  
  
          “Your moon blood, my lady. When did you last bleed it?”  
  
          “Oh.” Dany had to think on it for a moment. She had only been asked about her moon blood once in her life, by Illyrio, to confirm that she had bled it before he agreed to sell her for Viserys. Dany had not spoken of it again since then. She had only bled for the first time a year ago. “A fortnight ago,” Dany finally said.  
  
          Clare nodded. “We’ll know soon then.” She resumed her scrubbing, now markedly gentler.  
  
          Dany was confused again. “Know what?”  
  
          “If you’re with child, my lady. If you don’t bleed, then we’ll know. Lord Lucas’s mother birthed him the same year she wedded his father. You’ll likely do the same. The seed is swift.”  
  
          Dany nodded slowly, chewing on that. She knew it was natural for a lord and lady to produce progeny, that it was expected of them even, but she had not thought of it much. Lucas and his servants all seemed so eager for it. Perhaps Dany ought to have been too. But she did not know pregnancy, nor childbirth, nor motherhood, and she was not eager for things she did not know. The unknown was frightening, and Dany was easily frightened. She wished she wasn’t. But she knew the day the dragons hatched would be the end of her fear. _‘When they’ve grown and matured,’_ Lucas had said as they’d gazed upon the eggs together, _‘when they can swallow the Usurper whole, when they can melt Casterly Rock with their fire ... we’ll fear no one.’_ Those fantasies gave Dany strength like she’d never known.  
  
          Clare’s bathbrush travelled lower and lower, first to Dany’s taut stomach, then to her upper groin, and then to that place between her legs, to the silver and the pink. The maid was gentlest there. “My lady, if you suffer any ... _discomfort_ when you lay with the Lord, there are those in Volantis who make salves for that. It’s not unusual for younger ladies to suffer some pain. There’s no shame in it. I could ask Lord Lucas about acquiring the salve, on your behalf.”  
  
          “There’s no pain,” Dany told the maid.  
  
          Clare seemed doubtful. “None at all?”  
  
          Dany shook her head plainly. “There was at first. The first time. Not anymore.”  
  
          Clare gave Dany a motherly smile, as she so often did. “Very good, my lady.”  
  
          Dany had no qualms over speaking of such intimacy with the maids. She had not known them for long, but she did not need to. They were always so sweet and affectionate towards her. It made it easy to be open with them. Everyone in the manse was so kind and caring. They were so unlike anyone Dany had ever known, save only for Ser Willem Darry in the house with the red door. The manse’s smell was a comfort too. While so many of the places Dany had traveled with Viserys had smelled of strange, foreign scents, Lucas’s manse smelled just like Ser Willem’s house. It smelled like home. Lucas would likely tell her that it smelled like Westeros, but Dany did not know Westeros. Not yet.  
  
          _Will we sail there?_ Dany wondered. _Or will we fly?  
_  
          “You two are a perfect union,” Elayna said cheerily. “A Velaryon and a Targaryen. A marriage of _dragonlords._ Just as it so often was before. The Gods will have him put a baby in your belly soon. It’ll be a boy, doubtless. Strong and healthy too. And then you’ll have the whelps as well. The Seven are smiling on you.” After a thoughtful pause, Elayna abruptly added, “I bet he’s a wonderful lover.”  
  
          Clare shot her younger counterpart a less than approving glare. “Elayna fancies Lord Lucas,” she explained. “But she knows better than to attempt to act on it. She is but smallfolk. _He_ is the rightful Lord of Driftmark, Master of the Tides. And now he has you.”  
  
          “And I’m far too old for him,” Elayna noted with a self-inflicting harshness, suddenly frowning. “I’d been sad for him for so long, not having a lady. All lords should have ladies, you know.”  
  
          Dany gave Elayna a queer look. She was an odd woman, Elayna. She seemed somewhat touched in the head at times. It was strange for a woman with white in her hair to be so young in her heart.  
  
          Elayna’s sadness left her as sudden as it came, and her lips curled up into a genuinely joyful smile. “There aren’t many ladies deserving of him, but you’re one of them. You’re a Targaryen. Your family is _legend.”_  
  
          Lucas and his servants spoke of the Targaryen legacy almost as often as Viserys had. Dany was never sure what to say when they celebrated it. The grandness and accomplishments they spoke of were not hers. Aegon the Conqueror, she had never known. Baelor the Blessed, she had never known. Even her eldest brother Rhaegar, who they praised most of all, she had never known. The only other Targaryen that Dany _had_ known was Viserys, and he was not grand or accomplished, not at all.  
  
          Dany wondered if Viserys had often thought about her since he gave her to Lucas. When she realized that he likely had not, she suffered a cold chill and an ache in her heart. She decided she would try not to think of him again. Not for a while, at least.  
  
          “Could you roll over, my lady?” Clare asked sweetly. “It will only be for a moment.”  
  
          “Alright,” Dany said without protest. She grabbed the side of the tub and rolled herself over, onto her belly. She rested her chin atop the edge of the tub and shut her eyes. She felt Clare’s bathbrush scrub her swiftly, first in her armpits, then over her shoulder blades, then her lower back, and then the crack of her arse. Clare lifted Dany’s legs to scrub the soft soles of her feet. It was immensely ticklish. Dany’s feet twitched, and she could not stop herself from giggling.  
  
          “All done, my lady,” Clare said.  
  
          Dany rolled and returned to her back. The maids grabbed a nail file and a little pick. Elayna began jabbering on and on as they cleaned the nails of Dany’s hands and feet. Dany found herself paying less and less attention; she desired less to listen and more to relax. Clare soon noticed that. “Hush now, Elayna,” Clare said. “Let the lady rest.”  
  
          Then came silence at last. Dany closed her eyes, relaxed her body, and let out a long sigh.  
  
          Eventually, the maid’s hands ceased their movements across her body. When Dany finally opened her eyes and returned to the world around her, she wondered how long she must’ve been resting. The hot water had cooled, and Dany’s fingers and toes had thoroughly pruned. The two maids sat on stools at each side of her, watching her silently, awaiting her command. They had made her as clean as was possible. Her nails had been trimmed, and the crevices beneath them had been scoured spotless and white. Elayna had brushed the hair of Dany’s head till it was smooth like silk, and Clare had clipped the shorthairs between Dany’s legs till they were groomed down to a stubble.  
  
          In Clare’s lap was stacked what Dany assumed would be what they intended to dress her in: a silver brassiere and a matching silver underskirt, a lilac-colored, one-garment gown, and a pair of white, polished sandals. “Are you ready, my lady?” the maid asked. There was no sense of hurry or haste in her voice. Dany did not doubt that they would wait for hours if she asked it of them. But the cooled water would soon give her chills, and she preferred warmth.  
  
          “Yes,” Dany said.  
  
          That evening, after Dany and Lucas supped on black bread, a wedge of cheese, and a suckling boar, they retired to their bedchamber. While Tobas circled the room and struck alight fresh candles with a tinderbox, Dany went to the crate on Lucas’s desk and caressed the dragon eggs in their nest of straw and blankets. They had become so warm now. She hoped the whelps within could feel their mother’s touch.  
  
          When Tobas finished with the candles, he started for the door. Before leaving, he turned and bowed low. “My lord, my lady,” he said. Dany gave him a nod, and with that, the steward departed through the door.  
  
          When Dany turned away from the eggs, she found Lucas standing by their bed with his back to her. He had an arm wrapped around one of the tall bedposts. There was something _off_ about the way he stood. He looked almost ... uncertain. It was only the second such time Dany had seen him so. The last time, when Lucas had gazed upon the dragons that were locked away from him, Dany had been the one that solved his uncertainty. She wondered if she could do so again. “What’s wrong?” she asked.  
  
          Lucas uncoiled his arm from the bedpost and turned to face her. He took in the sight of Dany for a short moment before he spoke. “Daenerys,” he said, “you’re not a slave. You know that, don’t you?”  
  
          Dany nodded. “Yes,” she said.  
  
          Lucas fell silent again. Eventually, he said, “You’re my wife now, Daenerys. My father taught me that a husband has a duty to hear what his wife has to say. ‘Even if he never obeys her, he should always hear her.’ And so I ask you ... do I displease you? Does any of this,” he said as he gestured around himself, to the bedchamber at large, “displease you?”  
  
          Dany shook her head. “No,” she said.  
  
          Lucas came closer, till he stood over Dany, peering down at her. He was much taller than her, yet she never felt small in his presence. “So ... you want this too?” Lucas asked, gazing into her eyes. “Our life ... our marriage ... our dragons ... our fates ... all of it?”  
  
          Dany did not shy away from his gaze. “All of it,” she said.  
  
          Something lit up within Lucas’s eyes. Waiving any more words, he leaned down and captured Dany’s lips in a kiss. Dany’s eyes fell shut. Lucas’s moist lips passionately played with hers, gently tugging and audibly smacking. Dany soon felt his tongue sweep over her lips. She opened her mouth for him, letting his tongue enter to slather hers. It was a long-lasting kiss. Dany focused on the feeling of lips mingling and tongues dancing.  
  
          Then, in a single swift flourish, Lucas wrapped one strong arm around the small of Dany’s back and squeezed her soft arse with the large hand of the other, not to grope her, but to lift her. Lucas lifted Dany in his arms with a startling ease, like a child picking up a doll. She wrapped her legs around his hips to make the task of carrying her easier, but she sensed that it wasn’t needed. Lucas carried her to his bed – _their_ bed – and sat her on the edge of it, where she released him from her legs. Dany helped Lucas undress her. As he began unfastening and slipping off her sandals, she pulled her gown over her head. Next, as he pulled her underskirt down her legs and off her feet, she reached behind herself and unclasped her brassiere. When she slipped it off and it fell away, her nakedness was fully bared to him.  
  
          Dany was pale, whiter than milk, and was only growing paler, barely touched by the sun. Her body was slight and petite, yet womanly, with a slender waist that was noticeably narrower than her torso and hips. Her breasts were somewhat small, but they were perky and shapely. Their little nipples were a bright pink, the same color of the slit between her legs.  
  
          Lucas’s hands were on Dany in an instant, caressing her, admiring the softness and smoothness of her nubile flesh. He first fondled her sensitive breasts, cupping and petting them. He was gentle enough that it did not hurt. His hands then brushed over her taut stomach as they moved southwards. Lucas grasped her slender thighs and stroked them. A heat soon gathered in Dany’s loins. Before Lucas could push apart her legs, Dany parted them for him, opening them wide. Lucas leered at that place between them, at the slit of slim, pink lips tucked into a cleft stubbled with soft, silver-blonde hair.  
  
          Lucas crouched down. As high as the mattress of their bed was from the floor, he did not have to crouch down far. He brought his head closer and closer between Dany’s open legs, till she could feel his hot breath puff onto her slit. When Lucas spread her silver-haired cleft with a thumb and forefinger, he found her inner pinkness glistening. After looking upon it for a little while, he took his hand away and let her flesh close. Then, suddenly, Lucas dove down, nestled his nose in her shorthairs, and began kissing Dany in that place between her legs.  
  
          Before, in his lust, Lucas had never lingered in that place. Before, he had seemed to kiss Dany there for only long enough to further wet and swell her flesh, to ready her for his manhood.  
  
          But that night, he lingered.  
  
          Lucas kissed Dany’s slit with an eager passion. His efforts were numerous and various. He first ran the flat of his saliva-slick tongue through her pinkness, sliding that warm, wet muscle through a place that was even warmer and wetter. Then he took one of her inner lips into his mouth and rolled and tugged on it till it slipped free. Then he closed his mouth over the little hooded button that crowned her slit and sucked at it, pulling it between his lips. The sharpness of that last act’s pleasure took Dany by surprise, and she mewled girlishly.  
  
          Lewd sounds filled the bedchamber as Lucas dined between Dany’s legs. There were smooches, slurps, moans, and groans. The sounds only seemed wetter as time passed.  
  
          Dany’s pleasure grew from warm blooms, to hot pangs, and then to fiery bolts of bliss. Her breath hastened, and she began to gasp. The intensity of it was unlike anything she had ever felt. An unfamiliar pressure began building within her very core, as though inside her was the string of a high harp being tightened and tightened. Dany’s legs closed around Lucas’s head, warming his ears with her smooth thighs.  
  
          “Lucas,” Dany said. Lucas’s eyes flicked up to hers when he heard her, but Dany said not another word. She was not sure whether to plead for him to stop, or to plead for more.  
  
          Lucas did not stop. He gave her more.  
  
          Lucas’s efforts grew more fervent. His tongue brushed her firmer, his mouth rolled her lips faster, and he sucked her button tighter. Dany found herself twisting and shifting her hips as Lucas pleasured her, directing his lips and tongue to exactly where she desired them. Lucas followed those wordless directions to perfection.  
  
          When Lucas’s hands ventured upwards and squeezed her sensitive breasts, Dany let out a sudden, shrill cry. It was the loudest she had cried out in longer than she could remember. It was not of pain, but of pleasure. Lucas locked his eyes with hers again when he heard it, leering at her with his pale blue gaze. With his hands on her breasts, his mouth sucking her wetness, and his icy eyes gazing into hers, the tension on Dany’s harp string soon grew too great for it to bear. When Lucas buried her button beneath his tongue and stroked it up and down, the string snapped.  
  
          Dany’s body clenched. Her eyes jammed shut, her shoulders bunched, her gut tensed, and her thighs locked tightly around Lucas’s head. She cried out with the last of the breath she held in her lungs. Strong contractions worked through her as fiery bliss spread outwards through her flesh, wave after wave. Dany squealed between gritted teeth as her body rocked into Lucas’s face.  
  
          When the last contraction left her, Dany’s eyes gingerly opened, as did her locked thighs, freeing Lucas from their grip. She peered down at him between her legs. He was gazing upon her swollen slit. A milky-colored cream now oozed from her pinkness. Dany did not know what it was, but Lucas was unfazed by the sight of it. He leaned closer again and lapped it away on his tongue.  
  
          After looking upon Dany’s swollen slit for a little longer, Lucas stood straight and began shedding his clothes. When he was bare, he climbed into bed.  
  
          Dany shifted towards the bed’s headpost. She laid herself flat on her back, laid her head atop a pillow, and laid her arms at her sides. When Lucas crawled closer, Dany opened her legs for him, allowing him to plant his knees between them.  
  
          Dany gulped thickly as she gazed upon Lucas’s bare body. He was tall and strong, with broad shoulders and a visible tone to his tight chest and abdomen. His manhood was tall and strong too, and stiffer than steel. It rose from an unwieldly thicket of coarse, brown hair, with a loose, scraggly sack swaying below. _My husband,_ Dany thought as she looked upon him.  
  
          As Dany gazed at his nakedness, Lucas did the same at hers. He admired first her perky breasts, which he then gently groped. Then he admired the pink slit between her legs, where he would soon take his pleasure. Then he admired her face, where his gaze lingered longest of all. “You are _so bloody beautiful,”_ he muttered.  
  
          Dany nibbled her bottom lip beneath a smile. _And you’re so handsome,_ she wished she had the courage to say.  
  
          Lucas lowered himself, coming closer to Dany. When he planted his hands atop each of hers at her sides, she entwined her fingers through his. She wrapped her legs around his hips and locked her feet together above his firm arse. Lucas eased himself further down, till his chest hovered just over Dany’s breasts. The sharp contrast between their flesh was poetic. They were like all the songs of kings and queens. Lucas was hard, muscular, and sunkissed, and his hands and feet were rough and well-worked. Like a king. Dany was soft, smooth, and pale, and her hands and feet were silky and never-labored. Like a queen. _  
_  
_‘A perfect union’_ echoed in Dany’s mind. As Lucas prepared to bed her again, as he prodded his swollen crown against the lower end of her pink slit, nothing seemed truer.  
  
          Dany did not see Lucas enter her, but she felt him. A stiffness pushed inside her. He entered her with a smooth ease, welcomed by her slick wetness. She felt his thick manhood widen her walls as it glided through her. Dany was never sure how Lucas would fit his large manhood inside her little slit, but he always managed. When the last of him was sheathed inside her, Dany glanced down. The shorthairs of their crotches were mingling, mixing fair silver-blonde with hearty brown.  
  
          Lucas went slow at first, easing that stiffness in and out. That friction of flesh had a different feel to Dany that night, now that her harp string had snapped. It felt hotter and hazier. Lucas let out a long sigh from the bottom of his lungs. Dany wondered what he felt when he was inside her, when his stiffness pushed and pulled inside her snug sheath. She hoped it felt good. She hoped his harp string was tightening, like hers had. She was almost certain it was. She could see the pleasure in his face.  
  
          Lucas hastened. He began to grunt. His hips bucked fiercely, thrusting his stiffness into Dany harder and faster. The sharp sound of slapping flesh rang off the walls as Lucas pummeled Dany’s small body beneath his own. Dany’s pale breasts bounced on her chest, rocked by his thrusts. Lucas watched them go up and down, his eyes tracking her bright pink nipples.  
  
          Lucas was not pacing himself. His harp string would snap soon. If this night would be like the ones before it, he would kiss Dany before long. He always kissed her when he finished.  
  
          But Dany decided she would kiss _him_ first.  
  
          She wriggled her hands free from beneath Lucas’s. Then she draped her arms over the back of his neck, pulled his head down, and kissed him deeply. Their eyes gazed into each other’s for a moment, one pair blue, the other violet, before they shut.  
  
          Lucas’s harp string snapped. He sheathed himself to Dany’s hilt and groaned into their kiss. Dany felt his stiffness twitch inside her. His chest heaved and sputtered, wrought with palpable pleasure. When his stiffness gave its final and faintest twitch, his full weight collapsed atop her.  
  
          The warmth between Dany’s legs was a little warmer now.  
  
          Eventually, Lucas broke their kiss and their embrace. They both opened their eyes. Lucas pushed himself up and rose to his knees. Dany knew he would. He always gazed between her legs after he took his pleasure.  
  
          Dany sat up straight. She too wanted to look upon herself that night. She had never looked between her legs afterwards. She was curious.  
  
          Dany’s pinkness was gaping around Lucas’s manhood. She had never seen it open so wide. She hadn’t thought it could. When Lucas slowly pulled out of her, his crown slipped free with a wet sound, and Dany’s pinkness closed into the slit she was accustomed to. Lucas gave a little shudder and sigh. Dany glanced at his manhood. It was glistening with her wetness, slick and shining from crown to root. Dany gulped thickly again. She liked seeing his manhood wet from her flesh.  
  
          Then, suddenly, a thick white drooled out of the little hole at the bottom of Dany’s slit. Lucas spread her with a thumb and forefinger again to better admire the sight of it leaving her. The white flowed slowly from her pinkness, oozing out of her hole and trickling down the crack of her arse. It was warm. Dany saw Lucas’s throat shift while he watched, gulping just as she had. He liked seeing her hole filled with his white.  
  
          Dany wondered if Lucas would make so much seed had he taken any other woman as a wife. With a small smile, she thought not.  
  
          The following month was uneventful, but that uneventfulness was a revelation itself. Dany did not bleed. She and the maids together revealed to Lucas what they confirmed: Dany carried his child. Dany would never forget how _un_ surprised Lucas was. He grinned like he’d never grinned before, and he took Dany into the tightest embrace yet, but he held no hint of astonishment and spoke no words of shock. It was like he’d already been sure of it.  
  
          In their first night together, Dany had told Lucas that he was nothing like her brother. Those words only proved truer and truer as weeks passed. Dany was often in need of Lucas’s learning in various matters, in marriage, in the life of the lady, and in the traditions of their families, but while Viserys would’ve scolded her or even struck her for her ignorance of his birthrights and his authority, Lucas instead gave her his knowledge with affection, rather than contempt. And it was not long before that affection bloomed into something much more, for both of them.  
  
          Love was a strong word, and for the longest time, Dany had not fully understood it. Ser Willem had once told her that a brother and sister ought to love each other greatly. Dany had always loved her brother, and still did, but the way he had treated her in return never seemed at all like love. Viserys had not seemed to truly love anything.  
  
          But Dany knew love with Lucas. Of that she was certain. The way he touched her, the way he held her, even the way he spoke to her, it all made her feel so _cherished,_ as though she were his glittering silver treasure.  
  
          It took time for Dany to adjust to life at Lucas’s side. At Viserys’s side, Dany had cowered, meek and timid, fearful of waking the _‘dragon’_ that Viserys claimed to be. With Lucas, no such fear was needed. Lucas was a true dragon, strong and brave. Dany knew she could be strong and brave too, in time.  
  
          Peaceful months passed. Lucas took his pleasure every night. Many mornings too. Sometimes it would even be the middle of the day when he took Dany’s hand and led her to their bedchamber. His lust for her was blazing. Most often, Lucas took his pleasure between Dany’s legs. Sometimes he asked that she use her mouth. Dany discovered the taste of his seed. It was somewhat salty, but largely flavorless. It was easy to swallow. Dany always welcomed Lucas’s desire. She knew that their lust and love were linked. Each strengthened the other. And Lucas’s lust never slowed, not even as Dany’s belly swelled with his child.  
  
          It was sixteen weeks into their marriage when the bump first showed in Dany’s belly. By the thirty-eighth week, her belly had bloated into a great big swell, forcing her to wear looser and looser gowns. Clare had warned Dany that she would likely suffer from various unpleasantries of being with child, but Dany did not suffer many. She was a little achy, a little sleepy, had to urinate often, and had a curiously intense craving for cheese. Not much else. Clare had said that Dany should consider herself fortunate for that.  
  
          Then, in the ninth month of their marriage, on a brisk but still warm morning in Volantis’s coolest time of the year, it was as if all the excitement Dany and Lucas had avoided was thrust upon them in one day.  
  
          Dany and Lucas stood facing the tall mirror in their bedchamber. Dany wore a gown of the softest silk. It was dyed pale purple, and it was loose enough to accommodate her massively swollen belly. Lucas loved to have Dany dressed in purples and violets, to match the color of her eyes. Standing just behind her, Lucas wore a lordly, midnight black doublet with teal trimmings and small sapphires for buttons, as well as a matching pair of black trousers. His bejeweled sword was fastened to his belt at his left hip. His arms were wrapped around Dany, cupping the huge swell of her pregnant belly.  
  
          Dany had become nearly two stone heavier since her first day with Lucas, and all the added weight seemed to be entirely in her belly. Her limbs were no thicker, her face no fatter. Her breasts had swollen somewhat, but she still could not be called buxom. Her breasts could still not fill Lucas’s large hands. Her belly had swollen much more than they.  
  
          “He’ll arrive any day now,” Lucas mused with a warm smile. “Our beautiful boy.”  
  
          It would be a boy. A medicine man Lucas had taken Dany to had revealed as much.  
  
          “Yes,” Dany said, smiling with him. She wished she had more to say than that. Lucas was better with words than her.  
  
          Dany felt the baby kick within her womb. Their boy was always most active when Lucas was with her. Clare had told her that her son could already hear voices, even from within her belly. The baby knew the sound of his father.  
  
          “Do you think he’ll have your hair and eyes?” Lucas asked as he gazed at Dany’s belly in the mirror. There was something almost aggressive in his gaze, like a sort of primal pride. He had put a child in her. He had done his husbandly duty to her. Now Dany would soon do her wifely duty to him.  
  
          “I don’t know,” Dany said with a soft shake of her head, still smiling.  
  
          “I think he will. He’ll have plenty of dragon’s blood.”  
  
          By chance, Dany’s eyes met Lucas’s in the mirror. “Have you decided on a name?” she asked.  
  
          Lucas nodded. “Jacaerys. Jace for short. After my father.”  
  
          “A good name,” Dany said.  
  
          As soon as the words left her, the bedchamber door loudly burst open behind them. Dany jolted with fright. The baby kicked wildly inside her, seemingly spurred on by her fear. Dany and Lucas whipped their heads towards the door. The steward Tobas stood in the open doorway, looking harried. “My lord, my lady, forgive me if I’m interrupting,” he said with a breathless swiftness.  
  
          “You’re not,” Lucas told him. “What’s going on?”  
  
          “There are two men waiting in the parlor. They want to see you and Lady Daenerys. They’re Westorosi, my lord. They’re dressed in rags, but they have swords.”  
  
          “Who did they ask for? ‘Orello?’”  
  
          Orello was the pretend name that Lucas used everywhere in Volantis that was outside the safety and privacy of his manse. He was so fervent about it that he would drill Dany to ensure she never spoke his true name before they went out, few though those occasions were. Though Lucas wasn’t half as paranoid as Viserys had been and held little fear for any hired knives of the Usurper, he still did not want it common knowledge where the rightful Lord of Driftmark and Princess of Westeros lived.  
  
          Tobas shook his head gravely. “They asked for ‘Lord Lucas Velaryon,’ my lord. Him and ‘Princess Daenerys Targaryen.’”  
  
          Dany looked up at Lucas. His face had tightened. “Tell them we’ll be there in a moment,” he commanded.  
  
          “At once, my lord.” With that, the steward bowed away and left through the doorway.  
  
          Lucas turned Dany around, so that she faced him. “Listen to me, my love,” he said steadily. “If someone draws steel, run back here and lock the door. Only open it if it’s the voice of someone you know. Me or Tobas or one of the maids. Only us. No one else. Understand?”  
  
          “Yes, my love,” Dany said, nodding, paying close attention. It was always easy to follow Lucas’s instructions, because they were always clear, concise, and gentle.  
  
          “If you run here and I don’t return, it’s a twenty foot drop out the window. Have one of the servants drop first, and then have them catch you. Guard your belly when you fall.”  
  
          Dany frowned. “But the dragons ...”  
  
          “The crate can be dropped. The eggs have a cushion beneath them, the blankets. You can swaddle them in our bed furs too. They should be fine. Alright?”  
  
          Dany nodded again. “Alright,” she said. Then, as soon as the desire took her, she rose to her tiptoes, draped her arms around Lucas’s neck, and captured his lips with her own. “I love you,” she whispered to him between kisses.  
  
          “I love you too,” he whispered back.  
  
          They broke their kiss and spent a moment gazing into each other’s eyes. When they were prepared to face whatever lie ahead, they left their bedchamber and walked the halls towards the parlor.  
  
          _We are the blood of the dragon,_ Dany thought as they walked. She chanted it in her mind again and again, but it was to little avail. She still found herself frustratingly nervous. She did not know how Lucas was so often so cool and calm. He had once told Dany that his father was much more steady and unshakable than him. If that was true, then the man must’ve been like a tall, silver-haired pillar of ice.  
  
          The parlor was a spacious chamber near the manse’s entrance hall. Windows with their curtains pushed aside allowed the morning sun to bathe the room in its bright light. The parlor was furnished with various reclining chairs, padded couches, and small tables. Fur rugs dyed black warmed the floor and furniture, and sea green silks and tapestries lined the walls and the curtains. Dany found herself frightfully imagining those blacks and greens being stained red. She swiftly cleared those nightmarish thoughts from her mind.  
  
          Dany and Lucas entered the parlor cautiously, with Dany trailing just behind, peering over Lucas’s shoulder. A few feet beside the doorway they entered from, Tobas stood by a table decorated with a solid wooden carving of a seahorse. Dany wondered if Tobas would wield the carving like a weapon should they be attacked. The steward was such a mild-mannered man, Dany found it hard to imagine him fighting. But she knew how loyal he was to her and Lucas. That loyalty would spur him.  
  
          At the far side of the parlor, two unfamiliar men stood. It seemed that they had elected not to sit as they waited. Dany was not sure if that was good or bad. They were tall, had fair complexions lightly browned by the sun, and wore plain-looking but frightening swords at their left hips. But that was the end of their similarities.  
  
          One was very old and had broad shoulders like a bull. His great, white beard was almost as long as his full head of white hair. His eyes were blue and somber, and his face was lined and weary. Despite his advanced age, he seemed to have all of his teeth. He wore a loose, tattered cloak with its hood pulled back that obscured the shape of his large frame.  
  
          The man beside him was far younger, looking only a few years older than Lucas. He was slim of frame, lanky and long. He had a thin face of a thin nose and thin lips, and his eyes were brown and sharp. His black, very long hair fell in ringlets to his shoulders and was shiny with grease and sweat, and his jaw was coated with a dark, rough stubble. He wore a stained, sleeveless vest that bore his slender arms, and a patchwork pair of trousers.  
  
          Dany held a protective arm across her belly as she looked upon the men. She’d sooner let her arm be maimed than let her baby be hurt.  
  
          “Who are you?” Lucas asked the men brusquely, watching them with wary eyes as he readied a hand on the hilt of his sword.  
  
          When both men started speaking at once, they stopped and fell silent.  
  
          Lucas nodded to the old man. “You first,” he said.  
  
          “My name is Barristan Selmy, my lord,” the old man said.  
  
          Dany looked to Lucas’s face just in time to see his eyes widen and bulge. Dany had never seen him so shocked.  
  
          Lucas left her side and strode to the old man. Dany flushed with terror. She almost called out for her husband to return to her, but she stopped herself.  
  
          Lucas pushed the old man’s tattered cloak from his shoulders. He wore only a ragged, sleeveless shirt beneath it. Dany was awestruck as she took in the sight of the old man’s figure. He was incredibly robust. His shoulders and arms were swollen with muscles and lined with visible veins, and his upper chest was as broad as a barrel. The cloak had disguised his strength well. Dany had never seen a man so old look so strong.  
  
          Lucas’s eyes traveled from the man’s body to his face. “It’s really you,” he breathed. There was a look of boyish wonder in his eyes. “It’s been so long since I’ve been to King’s Landing, I almost couldn’t recognize you. And you certainly hadn’t had that beard.”  
  
          “Who is he?” Dany asked.  
  
          “The greatest knight alive,” Lucas told her. “Ser Barristan was Kingsguard to your family. He fought beside your brother Rhaegar in the rebellion.” Then the wonder in Lucas’s eyes abruptly weakened, and wariness returned to them. He backed away from the knight as his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword again. “But now he’s Lord-Commander of _the Usurper’s_ Kingsguard,” he added sharply. “He’s his sworn sword.”  
  
          “The Usurper is dead,” the younger man beside the old knight said. “The fool was gored by a boar during a drunken hunt. Joffrey Baratheon is king now.”  
  
          Lucas looked to him. “‘Dead?’” he repeated.  
  
          “Dead.” The man said it with such finality, it was as if the Usurper would never be spoken of again.  
  
          “And who ... are you?” Lucas asked slowly.  
  
          “What, you don’t recognize me either?” the younger man asked with a smirk, feigning outrage. “Though I suppose I’m a much different sight from when we were both little shits running around castles.”  
  
          Lucas squinted at the man for a moment. Then his eyes snapped open, and he bared a big grin. “Colton!” he whooped. Lucas went to the man and collided into him as they embraced each other in a tight hug. They laughed together and patted each other’s backs. Their joy was infectious, and Dany could not help but smile as she watched them embrace. She released the last of the fear she had been holding. It seemed that they were not being attacked by assassins after all.  
  
          When Lucas broke the hug and pulled away, he explained to Dany, “This is Colton Rykker, Lord of Duskendale.”  
  
          Dany called to mind the old map of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros that Lucas had helped her pour over as he taught her about the various lands and their various lords. Learning the kingdoms and their wardens was an easy task. Learning the numerous cities and the numerous lesser houses that resided in them was far more difficult. But Dany remembered Duskendale. It was a city on the coast of the crownlands. Driftmark, the island where Lucas was born, was in Blackwater Bay in the crownlands. One city was only a short sail from the other.  
  
          “We’ve been like brothers since we were boys,” Lucas said. “Whenever my father took me somewhere on the mainland, we’d stop in Duskendale for a week, and Colton and I would wreak havoc. I had no siblings of my own, so my father wanted us to be like brothers.”  
  
          “Brothers in all but blood,” Colton said, grinning with Lucas. Then Colton looked past him. His grin slipped from his lips as his gaze lingered on Dany. His eyes widened. “Is this ... is she ...”  
  
          Lucas returned to Dany’s side. “She is,” he said. “Lord Colton, Ser Barristan, this is Princess Daenerys Targaryen. My wife.”  
  
          “Seven hells,” Colton cursed. “Is it really her?”  
  
          “It can be no other,” Ser Barristan breathed, just as amazed by Dany as Lucas had been of him.  
  
          Dany suddenly felt shy. She came a little closer to Lucas’s side, taking shelter by him.  
  
          Ser Barristan hurried over to Dany and dropped onto one knee. He bowed his head so low that he looked to the floor. “Your Grace,” he said. “I’ve come to beg your forgiveness. I failed your family. I swore a vow to protect them, and I failed them. I would’ve died with Rhaegar at the Trident if I could’ve, but I lived when they cut me down, and ... when they offered to keep me a knight ... I accepted. I shouldn’t have. The lords and ladies of King’s Landing are nothing but snakes. Honor is dead in the Capital, and I fear that ... I’ve helped kill it.” His words carried intense regret and deep-seated shame.  
  
          Dany felt confused as she looked down at the kneeling knight. She was still not sure what he was apologizing to her for. She had never been wronged by him. Or, at least, she’d never _felt_ wronged by him. Ser Barristan spoke as if these were some great crimes he had committed against her, but to Dany that was impossible, because she had not even known the knight till he came to the manse.  
  
          “If you’ll have me, I’ve come to swear my sword to you,” the knight said, still kneeling, still looking to the floor.  
  
          Dany turned her head to Lucas beside her. “Can we trust him?” she asked.  
  
          Lucas met her eyes. “There’s not a more trustworthy man in the Seven Kingdoms,” he said. “And if he wanted us dead, we already would be.” Lucas looked down to the knight again. “Ser Barristan, if you forsake the false king Joffrey, the Baratheons, and the Lannisters, then I will take you as our sword.”  
  
          Ser Barristan turned his gaze upwards, to Lucas. “Forgive me, my lord, but I came to swear myself to the family I first swore to. I came to swear to Princess Daenerys.”  
  
          A silence fell across the room. Behind Ser Barristan, Colton gave him a look of shock and disdain. Lucas’s mouth twitched. He seemed to have no words. But Dany did.  
  
          “If you wish to swear yourself to me, Ser, then you must swear to my lord husband and I both,” she told Ser Barristan sternly and sharply, speaking with a swell of strength and courage that she’d not been sure she possessed. “He is my family.”  
  
          Lucas gaped at Dany at his side, taken aback by her boldness. Dany simply smiled at him.  
  
          Dany had spoken the truth. Lucas _was_ her family. He was every bit her family that Viserys was, if not more so. Lucas was her husband. It was his arms that held her at night. It was his manhood that had made her a woman. And it was his son inside her womb.  
  
          Ser Barristan nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he said. He bowed his head again. “I forsake the false king Joffrey, the Baratheons, and the Lannisters, and I offer my sword to you both.” The knight unsheathed his sword and held it up by the broad of the blade.  
  
          Dany was not sure what to do with it, but thankfully, Lucas was. He took the knight’s sword by the grip and held it at his side. “Ser Barristan Selmy, do you swear by the Seven to always protect myself, Daenerys, and all our future children from danger?” he asked.  
  
          “I do,” the knight said.  
  
          “Do you swear to always keep our secrets?”  
  
          “I do.”  
  
          “Do you swear to always obey our commands?”  
  
          “I do.”  
  
          Lucas lay the tip of the sword atop the knight’s shoulder. “Then I name you, Ser Barristan Selmy, to be the lifelong Lord-Commander of our Kingsguard, where you will serve till your death.”  
  
          “I will not fail you,” Ser Barristan vowed fiercely.  
  
          Dany could tell how important that vow was to the old knight. It seemed as much a part of him as the blue of his eyes, as the blood in his veins. Dany had only known the man for a few minutes, but his convictions were compelling. She did not doubt that he would serve forever faithfully.  
  
          “Rise,” Lucas said. Ser Barristan obeyed and rose to his feet. Lucas returned him his sword. The knight sheathed it in its scabbard and stepped a few paces back.  
  
          “I forsake them too, for what it’s worth,” Colton quipped, reminding everyone that he was still present in the parlor. “They’re the reason I’m here.” When Lucas gave him an inquisitive look, Colton continued. “I didn’t exactly depart from Duskendale of my own choosing. I was forced out. My uncle ... well, I’ll tell you about it after I’ve had a hot bath and gotten some food in me.”  
  
          Lucas nodded to the sword at Colton’s hip. “Have you come to swear your sword to me too, brother?”  
  
          Colton let out a short laugh at the suggestion. “As a brother-in-arms, sure. As Kingsguard, I think not. I intend to take back my lordship when I return. My little brother Renfred only keeps my seat warm for me. I’ll not swear away my right to my city, nor my right to a wife and children.” Colton glanced at Dany’s swollen belly. “You might have the head start on me there, brother, but I had my eyes on quite a few ladies of the crownlands before all this happened.”  
  
          They were very different men, Colton and Ser Barristan. Dany wondered how often the two had bristled and bickered in their journey to Volantis. She could imagine Colton frequently complaining about the emptiness of his stomach or the harshness of the sun, but she could not imagine Ser Barristan doing the same.  
  
          Then the question came to Dany’s mind as to how the two men had even known she and Lucas were _in_ Volantis.  
  
          “How did you two find us here?” Lucas asked, having Dany’s exact same thought.  
  
          “Lord Varys sent us,” Ser Barristan told him.  
  
          “I found Ser Barristan in Pentos,” Colton said. “A couple of the Spider’s little birds brought us together and sent us on our way here. I’ve never trusted the eunuch, but he certainly seems interested in yours and Daenerys’s survival. He would’ve sent much less friendly swords than us if he wasn’t.”  
  
          Dany did not know who this _‘Varys’_ or this _‘Spider’_ or these _‘little birds’_ were, but Lucas seemed to. “I’ve known for some time that Lord Varys has been ensuring Daenerys’s safety,” he said. “But if he’s now truly supporting our bid for the Iron Throne, then he’s chosen wisely.”  
  
          “So your eyes _are_ on the Throne then?” Colton asked giddily, smirking. That smirk seemed to be the default expression for his face.  
  
          “Westeros is ours by rights,” Lucas said calmly. “Viserys hasn’t been heard from for months. In his absence, Daenerys is the heir, and I am her husband. That makes her the queen, and I the king. So ... I suppose we’re not to be called ‘my lady’ and ‘my lord’ anymore.”  
  
          “Quite right, _Your Grace._ And you’re fast on the correct path, it seems,” Colton noted. “You’ve the greatest knight in the realm sworn as the Lord-Commander of your Kingsguard. That’s a damn good start.”  
  
          Lucas turned to Dany and took hold of her hands. “You hear that, my love?” he said as he beamed a smile down at her. “Now we’ve three dragons _and_ the greatest knight in the realm. We’ll return to Westeros yet.” He leaned over to kiss her. Dany welcomed his lips with her own.  
  
          But their kiss hid her true feelings. To Dany, Lucas’s manse _was_ home. Yet she knew Lucas would never feel the same. He hated Essos, and he despised Volantis. He spoke ill of it every day. Dany had been born on a fleeing ship and hadn’t lived a day in Westeros, but Lucas had spent the first decade of his life there. He had grown up being groomed to be Lord of Driftmark and to lead House Velaryon. He would not rest till he returned to Westeros, and his resolve was unshatterable. Dany wished it could be different, that Lucas could be content here. But she knew he couldn’t be. And she would remain by his side wherever he went.  
  
          “‘Dragons?’” Colton repeated. “What dragons?”  
  
          Lucas pulled away from Dany, their lips parting with an audible smack. He faced the two men with a smile. “I’ll show you.”  
  
          Hours later, the midday sun shined high and bright in the sky, steeping the manse’s courtyard in its warm light. Dany reclined in a lounge chair in the courtyard’s spacious, innermost square. As it allowed Dany to lay flat, the chair was wonderful for her back, which had been plagued with dull pains from the chore of carrying around her son in her belly.  
  
          Twenty yards in front of Dany, Lucas and Ser Barristan danced around as they swung at each other with blunted, black-iron swords. They were both shirtless, their hairy chests shining with sweat. Ser Barristan had bathed, and he had cut his hair short and shaved his face. The man looked much more like a knight now, albeit still a very old one. The clean pair of trousers he wore was Lucas’s, a courtesy from him and his wardrobe.  
  
          Lucas and Ser Barristan pranced this way and that as they sparred, sometimes sidestepping, sometimes dodging back, and sometimes lunging forward as they lashed out with their pretend steel. Their shoes tapped away on the stone ground beneath them. At times they wielded their blunted swords at their hips like plows, and at other times they wielded them at their heads like the horn of an ox. Often their sword stances seemed outlandish to Dany, but she knew there must’ve been reason to them.  
  
          There was a crudeness to Lucas’s movements, but Ser Barristan shifted like water. It was a wonder to Dany how a man so elderly could move so swiftly and smoothly. The contrast of skill between Lucas and Ser Barristan was staggering. They would pause and call out “Yours,” whenever they suffered a blow from the other that they deemed would be _‘disabling’_ were they striking with sharp steel. Ser Barristan did not suffer one such blow. It was only Lucas who had ever spoke.  
  
          As their dancing wore on, Lucas’s frustration showed. His attacks became clumsier and less calculated. He began telegraphing how he would strike at the knight even more blatantly than he did before. Before long, his sword hand was being whapped by the knight’s weapon only moments after each bout began. Dany knew he would be blue with bruises by the time they lay together that night. Some hits seemed more painful than others, by no fault of the knight, and Dany winced when she witnessed them.  
  
          But then finally, in one bout, Lucas managed to force Ser Barristan onto the retreat, laying unto him an exciting barrage of blows that the knight just barely managed to parry ... only for Lucas to then overcommit, and for Ser Barristan to whap Lucas’s arm after sidestepping a thrust.  
  
          Lucas lowered his sword. His shoulders sank, and his head hung.  
  
          “You did well that time,” Dany said, hoping to comfort him.  
  
          “Not well enough,” Lucas muttered sourly.  
  
          Colton walked down the steps of a nearby stairway. He too was bathed, groomed, and wearing fresh clothes courtesy of Lucas and his wardrobe. His black hair was clean, its ringlets being smoother and holding a healthier shine. He still had his dark stubble, and his hair was cut only a few inches shorter than it was before. It still reached his shoulders. It was how he normally kept it, Dany presumed. It suited his long, thin face. Colton held in his hands a bowl of stew with a hunk of bread floating in it. “What have I missed? How raw has Barristan the Bold here beaten you?” he japed. “We should call him Barristan the Beater.”  
  
          Dany did not enjoy the comments. Brotherly banter or not, it wasn’t the time for his humor. In a flash of protective anger, Dany wished it was Colton that had been beaten and bruised instead of her husband.  
  
          “I’m Kingsguard, Your Grace. If you were better than I, there wouldn’t be much need for me,” Ser Barristan told Lucas kindly.  
  
          “I suppose.” Lucas leered at the ground. His pride was hurt, and he could not hide it.  
  
          “You haven’t had a partner to train at arms with for years,” Colton said, now speaking sincerely. “It’s natural to be a little out of form.”  
  
          Ser Barristan came to Lucas and put a hand on his bare shoulder. “Her Grace is right, you did well,” the knight assured him. “You’re better with a blade than half the lordlings your age.”  
  
          Lucas whipped his head towards the knight. “I am no lordling, Ser Barristan,” he blazed, scowling. “And I need to be better than _all_ of them. Ser Arthur Dayne, _the Sword of the Morning,_ said my father was one of the best swordsmen he’d ever seen fight. I have to be as good as my father was ... or I’ve failed him.”  
  
          That was the first time Dany had seen her husband blaze like that. He had so often seemed like an old soul, wise beyond his years, but that moment reminded her that he was still young, not greatly older than her. There were still insecurities within him, few they may be.  
  
          Dany rose from her lounge chair. It took true effort, and she grunted as she finally came to stand. She cradled her heavy belly as she went to Lucas. “Be calm, my love,” she said softly when she was by his side. She gently touched his other bare shoulder, opposite from the knight. “Everything will come in time.”  
  
          Dany’s words called to her mind thoughts of their dragons, of how soon they would hatch, and of their boy in her belly, and how soon he would arrive. They would come yet, in time.  
  
          Lucas turned his head towards Dany. He spent a long moment gazing into her eyes. Dany sensed that, as he searched himself, he found those same thoughts she just had, of their dragons and their boy. Lucas’s scowl softened, and the burning ire in his blue eyes cooled. He looked to Ser Barristan again. “One hour, every day, you’ll instruct me with steel,” he commanded the knight. The stoic strength and calmness had returned to his voice. “Sparring, teaching, everything.”  
  
          Ser Barristan took away his hand and nodded dutifully. “As you command, Your Grace.”  
  
          “It’ll take time to be as good as your father,” Colton commented.  
  
          “Then it’s good that we’ve plenty of it,” Lucas said dryly.  
  
          Now the steward Tobas came down the steps. “I’ve spoken to a smith, Your Grace,” he called out to Lucas. “He said he can have the suits made in three months, but you all must come to him and be measured first, and more throughout.”  
  
          “‘Suits?’” Dany repeated, knitting her eyebrows. She wasn’t sure what the steward was speaking of.  
  
          “Armor,” Lucas explained as he looked to her again. “Plate-and-mail. We’ve three swordsmen here now, and we need all be armored. And it’ll save me the bruises from Ser Barristan the Beater here.”  
  
          Just then, something clenched in Dany’s gut and loins. She felt something give way, and then felt a wetness gather in her underskirt. She leaned over, clutched her belly, and cried out.  
  
          Everything was a blurred flurry of voices and movements then. Lucas barked orders at everyone and lifted Dany in his arms, putting one beneath her midback and another beneath her knees. Pangs of pain struck Dany’s gut and tightened her muscles, each pang stronger and more agonizing than the last.  
  
          Lucas took Dany to their bedchamber. Clare was already there when they arrived. When the maid was told what was happening, she swiftly lay a clean sheet atop their bed. She and Lucas helped Dany out of her gown and undergarments and eased her down into their bed from the side, with her legs facing them. The others stood in the doorway, watching, but Lucas shouted them all away, giving them various commands. When Lucas shut the door behind them, only he, Clare, and Dany remained.  
  
          Lucas returned to the bedside and took hold of Dany’s nearest hand. Things seemed a little less crazed then, if only barely. “She’s delivered before,” Lucas told Dany as Clare took her place between Dany’s instinctively spreading legs.  
  
          “A hundred times,” Clare added. The calmness in her voice was a great comfort to Dany, as was Lucas’s hand holding hers. Lucas was still shirtless from sparring, his chest still gleaming with sweat. He had not bothered to clothe himself.  
  
          Dany winced sharply, scrunching up her face and jamming her eyes shut. Contractions worked through her like a rolling pin through dough, rhythmic and crushing. They came in swift succession, one right after the other. They hurt more than anything Dany had ever felt. It was all she could do not to scream.  
  
          “He’s coming fast,” Clare said. “You’re ready to push.”  
  
          “How do I?” Dany asked, her eyes still shut.  
  
          “When you feel a contraction, bear down, _hard._ Push him out. The act should come naturally.”  
  
          When Dany felt the next contraction, she leaned forward and pushed as hard as she thought possible. She pursed her lips as spittle flung from her mouth. Though Dany had feared that pushing would hurt more than the contractions already did, the opposite was true. The pushing relieved the pain. When Dany had used all the energy in her muscles, she slackened and gasped for breath. Her back felt like it was on fire. She was pouring sweat.  
  
          “Gather your breath, Your Grace,” Clare said. “When you can, start pushing again.”  
  
          When Dany felt like she’d regained enough energy, she started anew.  
  
          “I see his head,” Clare soon said. “Won’t be long now. Keep pushing, Your Grace.”  
  
          “Lucas,” Dany called out as she squeezed his hand. She could not see him with her eyes jammed shut like they were, and she wanted to hear his voice.  
  
          “I’m here, my love,” Lucas said. That voice ... low, smooth, and always steady ... Dany so greatly loved that voice. She loved it in that moment more than ever.  
  
          “Almost there,” Clare said.  
  
          Dany pushed harder. Just when she felt like she was about to burst, a blissful relief washed through her burning body like ice water. Dany heard a baby’s cry. She opened her eyes.  
  
          “He’s a boy, sure enough,” Clare confirmed with a grin. “Strong cry. He’s big and pink and plump. I’ve never seen a healthier babe. Easy birth too.”  
  
          _Easy?_ Dany thought with disbelief. Had the birth been easy? It certainly had not seemed so. Dany did not envy the mothers who went through _‘difficult’_ births.  
  
          After wiping the squalling boy down with a washcloth and clamping and cutting the cord attached to his belly, Clare handed him to his father first. Lucas cradled him in his arms and laughed with a joyous mirth. His lips wore a wide, dopey smile, the widest Dany had ever seen of him. Wider than when he had learned he’d put their boy inside her.  
  
          “Do you have a name for him, Your Grace?” Clare asked.  
  
          “Jacaerys,” Lucas said as he gazed at his boy.  
  
          Lucas came closer to Dany. Her breathing was slowing and calming when he gently handed Jace to her. Dany held the boy in front of her eyes. She found herself wordless. This pink, squalling thing was ... her child. Her son. _Her_ son. Dany had known for months she was to be a mother ... but now she truly was. Jace was of her own blood, of her own womb, and he looked it. He had a wisp of silver-blonde hair, and he squinted at her with little violet eyes.  
  
          There was a mist of emotions in Dany’s hazy mind, but one emotion was profounder than all the others. Dany smiled at Jace. Weakly at first. Then stronger.  
  
          “Put him to your breast, Your Grace,” Clare said.  
  
          Dany heeded the maid and brought Jace closer to her swollen bosom, gently cupping the back of his soft head with her hand. Jace’s mouth found one of Dany’s pale breasts, and a moment later, its pink teat. His squalling silenced as he suckled. A peaceful quiet settled in the bedchamber.  
  
          Then, in that quiet, there was a faint, shrill crack. Dany, Lucas, and Clare turned their heads about. Then a series of more faint cracks followed. “What is that?” Dany asked.  
  
          Lucas was the first to realize. His face went slack as he gaped at his desk. He hurried over to the crate. He picked it up and brought it to their bed, setting it on the opposite side of Dany from their suckling boy. Dany mustered her remaining strength and sat up on her bottom, still carefully holding Jace to her breast. She watched with wonder as cracks fissured across all three dragon eggs.


	3. Chapter 3

**LUCAS**  
  
          A comet appeared in the sky. Lucas first saw it on a clear morning, after he managed to pull himself from his wife’s warm flesh and walk to the window. It was bright red, and it slashed across the otherwise pale blue heavens like fresh-spilled blood. Lucas couldn’t be certain, but ... it looked a great deal like the bleeding star he had so often seen in his dreams.  
  
          Peaceful days became a rarity in the manse. Such was fatherhood, Lucas figured. And he wouldn’t have changed it for anything.  
  
          Jace was a mostly mild-mannered babe. Only rarely did he cry inconsolably in that way newborns did. He began babbling three months after his birth, speaking in ways one could almost understand. He often grasped at anything around him, whether it be a wood-carved toy or one of Daenerys’s breasts. Those rare bouts of wailing aside, Jace was nearly always smiling, and whenever Lucas saw him, he couldn’t help but to smile with him.  
  
          The dragon whelps, who fatefully came to the world the same hour Jace did, were beautiful little beasts, with shining scales and golden eyes. Daenerys named two of them, the diamond dragon and the sapphire dragon, but asked for Lucas to name the third, the ruby dragon, as she had always dreamt of Lucas astride him. Daenerys named the diamond she-dragon Dreamwing, from how often she had dreamt of her, as well as the brilliant, dreamlike colors of her milky scales and violet wings. The sapphire dragon she named Skyshark, from how she had foreseen that he would love soaring the seas. As for the ruby dragon, Daenerys had told Lucas that she foresaw him as the biggest and mightiest of the brood. Lucas knew immediately what he would call him. He named him Rhaegon, because his ruby scales called to mind Daenerys’s eldest brother Rhaegar and how his armor had rubies embedded into its breastplate, something that Lucas had marveled at as a young boy whenever he saw him wearing it. Rhaegon would be Rhaegar’s vengeance.  
  
          When Lucas began training the dragons, Daenerys made the suggestion to train them in High Valyrian, using an old book of the ancient language shelved in Lucas’s study. Lucas agreed. There was no more fitting a tongue to train them in. Dragons were not slaves, and nor were they pets, but they could be taught. If the legends were to be believed, only a Valyrian or their descendants, those with the dragon blood, could bond with or command a dragon. Lucas and Daenerys both carried that blood.  
  
          Following Jace’s birth and the dragons’ hatchings, there were times when the manse sounded like a pit of the seventh hell. When Jace’s squalling and shrieking rang through the halls, it was usually alongside the similarly shrill screeches of dragons. One often heralded the other. Whenever Jace distressed, the whelps cried out with him, as though calling for his aid. The sound was horrifying at first, but Lucas soon grew accustomed to it. As for other troubles, more than once embers of dragonfire had set ablaze a piece of furniture or a rug, at which times Lucas was grateful that the manse was built of stone and not wood. The occasional moments of peace and quiet were valuable, and Lucas used them well. Whenever Jace and the whelps both napped, Lucas would either grab Daenerys’s hand and take her to their bedchamber, or he would spend some alone time in his study.  
  
          In those hours in his study, Lucas worked tirelessly. There was much to do. He didn’t read often, not like he had before. The time for that had passed. Now was the time for preparations. Plans needed to be made. When they were grown and mighty, Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark would see Lucas and Daenerys returned to Westeros, but they wouldn’t be able to do it alone. Lucas needed an army, he needed ships, and he needed allies. Lucas would not stumble upon those resources, nor did he have the coin anymore to simply purchase them. He would have to acquire them by other means. How exactly, he wasn’t yet sure.  
  
          A letter came one day, penned by Lord Varys, the spymaster in King’s Landing who had again and again reinforced his claim to support Lucas’s and Daenerys’s cause, most notably by ensuring Daenerys was given to Lucas and no other, and then by sending Colton and Ser Barristan to Lucas after the former was condemned and the latter was stripped of knighthood. The letter bore bittersweet news. Varys’s little birds had learned that Viserys was found dead in a field between Braavos and Pentos. He was alongside scores of other corpses in what looked to be the aftermath of some clashing of sellsword companies. Varys speculated in the letter as to how and why Viserys had been killed, but in the end, it didn’t matter. When Lucas had told everyone the news in the parlor, the others all looked to Daenerys, who held Jace in her arms. Daenerys put on a brave face in front of the others in a show of strength, but later that night, in the privacy of their bedchamber, she wept into Lucas’s shoulder. She had never stopped loving her brother. Viserys was a truly cruel creature, and he didn’t deserve his sister’s love, but he had it, to the very end.  
  
          There was gravity to Viserys’s death. Before, Lucas’s and Daenerys’s claim to the Iron Throne was strong only in his absence. Now, in his death, it was absolute. By all rights and all laws of the land, Westeros was theirs.  
  
          But then, a few months after Jace’s birth, Lucas realized something alarming. The dragons’ growths had halted.  
  
          Like the last living dragons two hundred years ago, who had remained caged or cooped up in dragon pits and never grew to the size of the majestic dragons of millennia ago, Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark were stunted by their confinement. They grew only to the size of small hounds, weighing a little under two stone. Lucas realized with dread that they would not grow another inch if they were not free to roam. But he simply couldn’t allow that. They were too young, too helpless. If they were allowed to roam Volantis, they would’ve been killed in fear or captured as exotic pets. But if he didn’t free them, they would never become the great beasts they needed to be. Lucas remained unsure of what to do for weeks ... till events forced his hand.  
  
          Those events came on a calm morning. Silent, for once. Last Lucas saw of them, the dragon whelps were all curled into glittering, scaly balls alongside Daenerys on the couch in their bedchamber. Jace was with them, nursing at Daenerys’s breast. Tobas was attending her. Clare and Elayna were in the kitchen, preparing lunch. Ser Barristan was standing guard in front of the manse. Colton was out.  
  
          Lucas stood in the parlor, before the room’s tall, middlemost window. He wore his typical attire: a dark doublet, linen trousers, and his bejeweled sword. He held his hands behind him, at his waist. The rising sun bathed him in its warm light and cast his long, slender shadow far behind him. He stood there for some time, gazing at the Summer Sea, watching ships dock in Volantis’s ports. It was a frequent ritual of his. He liked the sight of seafarers, of ships and sails, decks and docks. He liked the sight of seas too, of their crashing waves and glittering waters. Lucas had spent all his life in port cities, and he was glad that hadn’t changed. As much as Lucas misliked Volantis, their slavery and savagery, he was at least grateful that his father had decided to transplant them to a city by a sea, rather than a landlocked one.  
  
          Lucas heard steel and mail clink behind him. He did not need to look over his shoulder to know who it was. It was Ser Barristan, standing in the nearby doorway. He wore one of the three full suits of armor that Lucas had paid a local smith to produce. He wore the largest of them. As a Kingsguard knight, Ser Barristan wore his armor at nearly all times, save only for when he slept, and even then it was nearby and ready to be equipped at a moment’s notice. The suit was fashioned of shining, silvery steel, complete with a greathelm, gorget, pauldrons, rerebraces, gauntlets, greaves, basset, sabatons, and a silken, teal-colored cloak that cascaded smoothly over his shoulders and down his back. At Lucas’s request, the smith who crafted the armor fashioned the gorget, rerebraces, and basset like the scales of a dragon, much like the other Kingsguard knights in Westeros. But the teal color of Ser Barristan’s cloak differentiated him from those false counterparts, who wore cloaks of white. The only piece of armor Ser Barristan did not often wear was his greathelm, which usually dangled from his belt, ready to be donned in an instant.  
  
          “Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said. “I wish to speak with you, if I may.”  
  
          “What of?” Lucas asked coolly, not having moved an inch.  
  
          “I have an apology.”  
  
          “Another?” Lucas asked. He still remembered Ser Barristan’s fervent apology from when he first came to them, when he expressed his shame of failing Daenerys’s family and then swearing his sword to those that replaced them. Though Lucas respected Ser Barristan, and even trusted him, his opinion of the old knight would always be slightly soured for those mistakes.  
  
          “Another,” Ser Barristan said.  
  
          Lucas turned around and faced the knight. He unfurled his hands from behind his waist and gestured to a small table nearby. “Sit,” he commanded. When the knight promptly obeyed, Lucas sat opposite from him. “What is it you wish to apologize for?” Lucas asked.  
  
          “When King Robert—”   
  
          “—The Usurper,” Lucas corrected Ser Barristan, leering at him.  
  
          Ser Barristan nodded. “When he died to that boar and Joffrey blamed me for it, when they tried to strip me of my knighthood ... I wasn’t sure what I ought to do, or where I ought to go. I’d heard rumors of Princess Daenerys being here in Essos, and a part of me wanted to serve her, if I could ... but so too did a part of me fear that she carried the taint.”  
  
          Lucas cocked an eyebrow. He hadn’t a clue what the old knight was talking about. “What _‘taint?’”_ he asked.  
  
          “The taint of madness,” Ser Barristan said gravely. “It’s in the Targaryen bloodline. I’m not the sort to quote history, Your Grace. I’m a man of swords, not books. But every man in the Seven Kingdoms knows the Targaryen blood suffers a taint. The Mad King made sure they know it now more than ever. Many years ago, King Jahaerys told me, ‘every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.’ He said that of his own family.”  
  
          Lucas shook his head, bristling with disgust. “Nonsense,” he said. “There is no _‘taint,’_ Ser Barristan. Westeros has had cruel kings and unworthy kings, but there’s only ever been one Mad King. And Daenerys is _nothing_ like her father. I would know. My father was King Aerys’s master of ships, as you remember. I met Aerys many times alongside him. I saw the man’s madness with my own eyes. Ser Barristan, Aerys’s madness was his and his only. Even Viserys wasn’t the madman he was.”  
  
          “I remember your father well,” Ser Barristan mused, nodding again. “He was a wise man. An honorable man.”  
  
          “And he would’ve said the same as I. There is no taint.” Lucas sighed, letting his anger fade and his glaring gaze soften. When he had calmed, he spoke again. “I understand your concern, Ser. I wasn’t taught to be a man of blind loyalty. My father wasn’t one. His loyalty was to the realm. He wanted Aerys to abdicate to Rhaegar.” Lucas paused. He considered telling the knight something that he had never told anyone, and then decided that he would. Now was as good a time as any. “When I arranged to meet Viserys, I was considering swearing fealty to him and serving him. He was a Targaryen, he was my liege. It would’ve been my duty. But then I saw what he was like, and I saw how fearful Daenerys was because of him. So I made my decision. I took Daenerys from him and never looked back.”  
  
          “You have your father’s mind, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said. “I see much of him within you. And ... whether the bloodline carries the taint or not ... Daenerys doesn’t have it. She’s a good, sweet young woman, and it’s a dishonor that I ever thought otherwise.”  
  
          “If you should be apologizing, it should be to her, not me.”  
  
          A small smile curled along Ser Barristan’s lips, with a sort of wryness Lucas didn’t often see from the humble knight. “I already have. I spoke to Her Grace first.”  
  
          “Ah,” Lucas said softly, feeling suddenly foolish. “Very well then.”  
  
          Behind Ser Barristan, Colton entered the parlor. There was an evident satisfaction in his smile. He was whistling a jolly tune. His shirt had become unbuttoned while he was out, and he hadn’t bothered to fix it. He wasn’t even attempting to hide his activities. He timed his return perfectly, at least.  
  
          Lucas turned his gaze back to Ser Barristan. “Leave us,” he commanded him. The old knight obeyed and took his leave. As he went to the doorway, Colton passed him by and came to Lucas.  
  
          “Need something?” Colton asked.  
  
          “Yes,” Lucas said, staring at him from his seat. “Sit.”  
  
          Colton sat down across from Lucas, in the chair that Ser Barristan had just left vacant. He sat in it much more languidly than the knight had. He sat sideways, put an arm over the chair’s backrest, and lazily examined his fingernails.  
  
          As close as they had always been, Lucas and Colton had also always been very different. Colton had a noticeably harsher wit. He had often used his words like a whip, even as a boy, lashing with biting insults anyone who displeased him. When they were young, he could break other boys into tears without laying a finger on them, though he was no stranger to fights either. Colton was more vindictive of the two, and he held grudges longer and deeper within himself. That penchant for grudges was what had sent Colton to Essos, as Lucas had learned after they reunited. For years, Colton had plotted to take revenge on the Crown and the Lannisters for Tywin Lannister giving his father the ultimatum of either being executed or taking the black with the Night’s Watch at the Wall. When Colton learned that his father died during a ranging beyond the Wall, the plan to take revenge was set in stone. Then, when the War of the Five Kings broke out following the Usurper’s death, as one of Robb Stark’s rebelling northern armies was to meet Randyll Tarly’s loyalist army on the field near Duskendale, Colton plotted to turn his family’s men against Randyll’s and aid Robb to victory. But Colton’s uncle betrayed his plot to Randyll Tarly, and Colton was slated by Randyll for execution. Colton’s younger brother Renfred then freed Colton in secret and put him on a ship sailing for Essos. But his penchant for grudges wasn’t what Lucas needed to speak to him about.  
  
          Being two years older than Lucas, Colton took after girls sooner, and far more fervently. Even as a boy as young as twelve, Colton had possessed an unending desire for them. He would often trade a favor with a girl to have her kiss him on the cheek, only to then whip his head and then steal a kiss from that girl’s lips. And now that unending desire had seemed to have translated into an unending lust as a man grown. For the past month, Colton had been leaving the manse nearly every day with a few silver coins, coins he did not return with. He always left around the same time, and it was always for an hour. It wasn’t the expenditure that bothered Lucas. It was where he was spending it. Colton hadn’t said where he went, but he didn’t need to. Lucas knew.  
  
          “We need to talk,” Lucas said.  
  
          Colton let out his typical laugh: a two-note chuckle beneath his breath. “I can tell,” he quipped.  
  
          “You’ve been purchasing the services of bed slaves.”  
  
          “So I have,” Colton openly admitted.  
  
          “You won’t be anymore.”  
  
          That finally drew Colton’s full attention. He looked away from his fingernails, to Lucas. “What, you’re serious?” he asked. When he saw no sign of jest in Lucas’s expression, he hurriedly sat straight and faced him. “Oh, come now, Lucas,” he said. There was almost desperation in his voice. “We’re not boys anymore. We’re men grown, and men have needs. Surely your father explained that to you. What does it matter if I spend some time with whores? We weren’t all so lucky to have been exiled into the arms of a gorgeous little Targaryen maiden.”  
  
          “I wasn’t exiled into Daenerys’s arms. I was here for years before I took her from her brother.”  
  
          “And you mean to claim that, in all those years, you never once took the pleasure of a whore?”  
  
          “Never,” Lucas said. “Those girls aren’t Westerosi whores, Colton. They’re bed slaves. They work against their will. They don’t wish to serve you. They do it because they have no choice.”  
  
          “If I weren’t using them, someone else would be,” Colton argued.  
  
          “That doesn’t make it right.”  
  
          Exasperation colored Colton’s face. He shook his head with wild disbelief. “What, are you worried that my proclivities will delegitimize you?” he asked. “Lucas, no one will remember what we do in this city. People will sing of your _‘Dawn of Dragons,’_ not of me spending time with some slaves in Volantis. No one will care—”  
  
          “—I won’t abide by it, Colton,” Lucas cut him off. “If you insist on this, you’ll be sleeping in the street.”  
  
          That broke Colton’s defiance. A short, broken sigh left his lips. His look of disbelief faltered.  
  
          “You’re my Hand of the King,” Lucas said, speaking more gently now, hoping to restore Colton’s spirit. “You’ll be the second most powerful man in my kingdom. It shouldn’t be hard for you to find a woman who’s willing. The Colton I remember loved a challenge. He loved hunting for a girl’s affection. There’s no challenge in bedding a slave.”  
  
          Colton put up his hands and bowed his head, surrendering. “Very well, you win,” he said tiredly. “You’re right. I’ll not touch another slave.” When he lowered his arms and raised his head, he smiled at Lucas. “You’re very much your father’s son, you know that? You may not have his hair or his eyes, but you’re a shade of that stubborn cunt, sure as shit.”  
  
          Lucas smiled with him. “I know.”  
  
          Colton stood from his chair. Lucas did the same. When Colton turned around, Lucas heard clinking steel and mail, just as he had minutes earlier. But the clinking was faster this time.  
  
          As Lucas and Colton watched, Ser Barristan appeared in the doorway, clutching a disheveled man by the arm. Ser Barristan threw the man down before them. He landed on his hands and knees with a thud. “Your Grace, I found this man spying on the manse,” Ser Barristan said. “He was hiding in shrubbery outside the kitchen window.”  
  
          The man was dressed in rags. He had brown skin, a bald head, and a gaunt face. His eyes were wide with terror. Lucas could not be sure of his age. He could’ve been twenty or forty. When Lucas saw the jet-black tattoo of a coin upon the man’s cheek, he knew he was a slave. All Volantis slaves bore tattoos upon their face to signify their status.  
  
          Lucas walked to the slave slowly, taking his time. He spent a moment considering what this meant, and what he ought to do. When Lucas came to stand over the slave, he leered down at him. “What did you see through the window?” Lucas asked, speaking in Bastard Valyrian, the tongue spoken in all the Free Cities. It was a tongue Lucas had practiced for years but was still not truly skilled in. Ser Barristan and Colton had a working understanding of it, but they were not as fluent in it as him.  
  
          “Nothing,” the slave professed breathlessly. “I saw nothing. I swear it.”  
  
          “The most he could’ve seen was the maids in the kitchen,” Ser Barristan noted. “I don’t believe he was in the shrubbery for long before I found him.”  
  
          “What is your name?” Lucas asked the slave.  
  
          “Deros,” he answered.  
  
          “Who is your owner?”  
  
          “Haraph Ara.”  
            
          Lucas’s heart sank. There was no name he had desired less to hear.  
            
          Haraph Ara was one of the Triarchs, the three men who ruled Volantis. They were selected in an election every year by Volantis’s unenslaved residents who could prove their descent from Old Valyria. Haraph was the longest tenured of the three. There was no one in Volantis with more power than him. Lucas’s father had to be approved by the Triarchs before he was able to purchase the manse from its previous owner, but the Triarchs owed Lucas no loyalty. Beyond his coin, he was nothing to them. For one of them to suddenly send a slave to spy on him did not bode well. The Triarchs could do as they pleased with Lucas and everyone else in his household. If they learned of Lucas’s dragons, they might decide that they were better owners for them, or that such dangerous creatures deserved only death. Lucas did not know the Triarchs well. He had only spoken to them a handful of times in his life. But they were slaveowners, and thus Lucas considered them capable of any cruelty.  
  
          “Ser Barristan, draw your sword,” Lucas commanded.  
  
          The old knight obeyed without question. Steel hissed as his blade slipped free from its sheath.  
  
          Deros’s head whipped about, from Ser Barristan to Lucas. “No, please,” he begged.  
  
          Lucas went down onto one knee, to the slave’s eye level. “Deros, I want you to tell Haraph the truth: you saw nothing. I also want you to tell him this lie: we never had this conversation. Can I trust you to do that?”  
  
          Deros nodded furiously. “Yes, yes, I’ll tell him.”  
  
          “Are you mad?” Colton asked with disbelief. “We have to kill him.”  
  
          “He doesn’t know anything,” Lucas said in the Common Tongue, still staring at the slave. “He hasn’t seen them.”  
  
          “But he knows we have _something.”_  
  
          “And what of it? Every wealthy household in every city in the realm has secrets. We’re not taking a man’s life for knowing we do too.”  
  
          “And if he’s lying to you? If he tells Haraph about this little talk of ours?”  
  
          “Then he tells Haraph, and they still don’t know anything more. They’re still where they started.” Lucas stood and gestured upwards with his hand. “Rise,” he said to the slave in his tongue. Deros slowly did as Lucas bid, joining him on his feet. He was trembling. Lucas looked to Ser Barristan and nodded. “Send him on his way.”  
  
          “At once, Your Grace.” Ser Barristan took Deros by the arm again.  
  
          “Thank you, thank you,” Deros babbled as the knight took him away.  
  
          Colton shook his head. Lucas left his side and started off towards the manse’s master bedchamber. “Where are you going?” Colton asked.  
  
          Lucas stopped in the doorway. “To speak with my wife,” he said.  
  
          “This isn’t good, you know.”  
  
          “I know. That’s why we’re leaving.”  
  
          “What?”  
  
          Lucas looked to Colton over his shoulder. “We’re leaving,” he repeated. “All of us. On the morrow, at dawn.”  
  
          “Where are we going?” Colton asked.  
  
          Lucas looked ahead again. “I don’t know yet.”  
  
          The next morning, at dawn, while the others packed, Lucas and Colton went down to the city proper and purchased a large cart, two healthy horses, three crates for pigs, an assortment of fishing equipment, and a tiny tincture of milk of the poppy. When Lucas and Colton returned, they loaded the cart with all their belongings. They locked Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark in the pig crates and concealed them with blankets. The whelps slept silently during the trip, sedated by the sips of the milk of the poppy Lucas had them drink.  
  
          After looking over his map of Essos, Lucas chose for their new homestead a grassy plain alongside the smallest and most secluded mouth of the Rhoyne river that poured into the Summer Sea. There wasn’t a town for many miles in any direction, and the closest road was a fifteen-minute walk away and was almost never traversed by travelers. Those venturing west from Volantis to the Orange Shore were almost certain to either choose a more secure road or simply sail there. The homestead’s location wasn’t so secluded that Lucas couldn’t have someone ride out for provisions, but there was more than enough privacy to field three growing dragons. The river meant fresh water, and it and the sea meant easy access to fish and mollusks for food. It was perhaps not perfect, but it was the best that Lucas could’ve chosen.  
  
          With every grown pair of hands pitching in, with Colton, Tobas, Ser Barristan and Lucas managing the handiwork and heavy lifting, and with Clare, Elayna, and Daenerys sewing the fabrics and furs, the homestead was built with an impressive swiftness. Lucas and Daenerys spent only a fortnight in a tent, as he had commanded for their bedchamber to be the first room to be finished and furnished. Ironically, it was Clare who was the most knowledgeable of construction in the group. Her father and brother were both builders who had constructed countless scores of smallfolk’s homes in Driftmark.  
  
          There were a few injuries in the building of the homestead, but nothing was serious. The worst Daenerys suffered was a finger poked by a sewing needle. The worst Lucas suffered was a hammered thumb, which hurt horribly for about a week, but was fine soon after.  
  
          With everyone’s combined efforts and a fair few trips to Volantis and back for supplies, the homestead was finished in a month and a half. It was only two buildings, a moderately sized house and a stable just large enough to shelter the two horses. Both were framed with timber, walled with plaster, and rooved with wooden shingles. It was the first home Lucas ever resided in that didn’t have a study or a dining hall. Instead, the kitchen was an eating space as well as a food preparation space, and Lucas spent his desk hours in his bedchamber. Overall, the homestead certainly wasn’t much, but it was cozy enough. It would do, for the time. Lucas knew their next home would be the one they truly deserved. He would make sure of it.  
  
          In the following months on the open homestead, freed from their confinements, the dragons grew rapidly in size and strength. Their voices deepened, from shrieking screeches to fearsome roars. As whelps, they could only spit embers of flames, but as they grew to adolescence, as drakes, they could spout shimmering streams of dragonfire, each with flames made up of their own unique colors. Rhaegon’s dragonfire was blood red, Skyshark’s was bright blue, and Dreamwing’s was pale white. Rhaegon remained the biggest of his brood. Before long, he was nearly as tall as a warhorse, and far lengthier. He wasn’t yet large enough to take a man to the sky, but he was more than large enough to kill one. Lucas had once seen him tear apart an elk after bathing it in a gout of his red dragonfire. The dragons roamed as they pleased, but they always returned to the homestead to sleep. They often slept in the hay in the stables, much to the terror of the horses. In his occasional trips to Volantis to purchase provisions, Lucas learned that rumors were spreading of dragons in the skies. But that’s all they remained: rumors. None believed those few who claimed to have seen their shadows or heard their roars. Dragons had been extinct for generations, after all.  
  
          Lucas continued sparring with Ser Barristan. It was even more important now that they were as isolated as they were. No city guardsmen would save them from Dothraki raiders if they were misfortunate enough to be happened upon by them. The dragons certainly would, but they weren’t always home. And Lucas’s sword was his father’s before it was his. It would be a disservice for an unskilled man to wield it.  
  
          Four months after the move, after a supper in which he only barely spoke, Lucas retreated to his and Daenerys’s bedchamber and sat at his desk. The room was aglow from the setting sun’s reddish rays that glared through the window.  Scrolls were strewn about in front of him. Some were blank, some were fully scribbled upon, others were only partly so. His quill rested motionless in its inkwell. Lucas’s hands were in his lap, entwined together finger between finger. He was deep in thought.  
  
          Some time after Lucas sat down, how _much_ time he couldn’t have been certain, Daenerys appeared in their bedchamber, and she appeared with a purpose. She wore a sleeveless gown of pale pink silk, a few shades lighter than the violet of her eyes. She came to Lucas’s side and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Jace is taking a nap,” she said. “Clare has him.” There was a suggestiveness to her words.  
  
          Daenerys was good at that, at making time for Lucas to take his pleasure, and at letting him know when each time had come. However, in that moment, Lucas scarcely noticed her tone. He was entranced, lost astray somewhere in some far corner of his mind.  
  
          “What’re you doing?” Daenerys asked as she looked over his messy pile of hastily scribbled scrolls. She must’ve thought his desk looked like that of a madman’s.  
  
          “Thinking,” Lucas said.  
  
          “Of Westeros?”  
  
          “Yes.” Lucas drew his quill from the inkwell and readied it over a blank scroll, but then stopped. He lightly tapped the tip of his quill, creating a growing blot of ink on the parchment. He began to think aloud. “If I can make it to High Tide, the castle ... if my family still recognizes me, if they’re still the family I remember ... they should restore me to Driftmark’s throne ... seeing you and the dragons should make their decision all the easier ... I could write them first, see what their reply is ... or perhaps that would be showing my hand too soon ... if we can return Colton to his little brother, he’ll restore him to Duskendale ... if all goes well, that’s two houses, their men, and all the smallfolk they rule ... but that’s not enough ... even with three dragons, that’s not enough ... we’d be slaughtered like the Starks ... and with the Usurper’s brother breathing down our neck from Dragonstone ... but perhaps I could bring Randyll Tarly to our cause ... he’s my uncle, I’m his blood ... he might see our cause as just ... he was a loyalist in the rebellion ... but he ordered Colton’s execution, and that could pose a problem.”  
  
          It was a flurry of thoughts, a few certain, but most very much not. To Lucas, it was all nearing to be overwhelming ... till he felt girlish fingers cup his cheek and gently turn his head.  
  
          Daenerys’s lips awaited his. She kissed him sweetly and lovingly, gracing him with one soft stroke of her lips after the other. Her next words came in the natural pauses of their kiss. “You’ve worried enough for today ... the dragons are still young ... you’ve still plenty of time to plan.”  
  
          Lucas sighed deeply into their kiss. “And what would you ... have me do instead?”  
  
          “If it would please you ... I would comfort you now.”  
  
          Daenerys’s lips parted for the final time. Lucas opened his eyes and met hers. Her violet gaze was adoring and affectionate, innocent but not chaste, submissive but not fearful. Lucas loved that look. He knew it well. In their early days together, Daenerys had possessed a strong shyness, but now, roughly a year and a half since they had wedded, on some occasions it was her who initiated their lust. Sometimes, when Lucas lay on his back relaxing in bed, it was Daenerys who crawled atop him. And sometimes, when they lay on their sides together, it was Daenerys who reached behind herself and grabbed Lucas’s manhood to guide it into her moist slit.  
  
          “It would please me very much,” Lucas said with a smile.  
  
          Daenerys smiled with him. Then she paused for a moment, her eyes gazing into Lucas’s. “Lucas ... I have news.”  
  
          “What news is that?”  
  
          Daenerys paused again. “I haven’t bled,” she said. “It’s seven weeks gone.”  
  
          That took Lucas by surprise.  
  
          Before, when Daenerys and the maidservants had told him together that she carried his child, Lucas had already known the day would come. He had foreseen it. But he didn’t expect her to bear him a second one so soon.  
  
          Lucas opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.  
  
          “We’ll have another,” Daenerys said.  
  
          Lucas’s smile returned to him, wider than before. His words soon followed. “Then I say we ought to celebrate.”  
  
          Daenerys’s smile mirrored his, widening and shining with joy.  
  
          “Take off your gown,” Lucas told her.  
  
          Daenerys stood straight and raised her arms to pull her gown over her head. Lucas helped her, tugging upwards on it. When it was off, she cast it aside with a flick of her wrist. Her body was then bared to Lucas. Daenerys was tight and lithe, girlish but womanly, with a flat stomach, narrow waist, and flared hips. Her breasts were pale and pert, with little pink nipples. She did not often wear a brassiere, as there wasn’t much purpose to it with how often she was nursing Jace. Her breasts were no less perfect a sight now that she was a mother. They were no less perky, no less shapely. They were a hint larger and their teats often leaked trickles of milk, but that only enticed Lucas more.  
  
          With her gown discarded, Daenerys wore only an underskirt spun from a white silk. Her cunt was mere moments away from Lucas’s sight, and he was craving it. Heeding his unspoken desire, Daenerys tugged down her underskirt and kicked it away. As soon as it was gone, Lucas wrapped an arm around her waist and brought her closer. Being seated, his head was roughly level with her crotch, and thus it was all too easy for him to stare. Daenerys’s cunt was plump and puffy, and the little slit within her cleft was already shining with moisture. Lucas loved the contrasting colors at her crotch: the pale white of her smooth thighs, the silver-blonde of her cunt hairs, and the bright pink of her slim slit.  
  
          Lucas leaned towards Daenerys, nestled his nose in the soft hairs of her mound, and gave her little cunt a loving kiss. He smooched her puffy cleft and pushed his tongue into her slit. Her sodden inner flesh was hot on his tongue. It had a somewhat salty taste, almost metallic. Lucas delighted in it. He let Daenerys’s wetness gather on his tongue for a moment, soaking it with her strong taste. Then he twisted his head and sucked one of the slim lips of her labia. He rolled her labia in his mouth, pleasuring it with his tongue, and pulled on it till it slipped free.  
  
          Lucas tasted Daenerys’s cunt in every way he could think of, kissing, licking, sucking. The room soon filled with the usual lewd sounds that came with him devouring her wettest of flesh. Daenerys breathed sweet moans as Lucas pleasured her. She gently grabbed Lucas’s head, curling her fingers through his wavy hair. Lucas straightened his head and brushed the flat of his tongue upwards through Daenerys’s slit, stroking the little button of her clitoris and its slim hood at the apex of every lick.  
  
          Lucas could’ve spent hours enjoying Daenerys’s taste, till the sun fell and rose anew. But he knew there was something even better than tasting her.  
  
          After giving his wife’s cunt a parting kiss, Lucas reared back. He clutched the arms of his chair and stood for a moment, lifting his chair as he stood. He turned his chair to face Daenerys and then dropped and sat again.  
  
          Daenerys went down to her knees before Lucas and began fiddling with his belt. When it was unfastened, she tugged his trousers and breeches down to his feet, where she slipped them off along with his shoes. The moment it was freed, Lucas’s manhood sprung out. It was tall and stiff and flush with hot blood, fully erect and eager for flesh. When Daenerys closed a soft, girlish hand around his manhood and gave it a few strokes, it hardened further, growing almost _achingly_ stiff.  
  
          Daenerys ran her tongue over her lips. Once she’d moistened them, she lowered her head and smooched a loving kiss onto the crown of Lucas’s stiff cock. More kisses followed as Daenerys shifted her mouth around his length, leaving a kiss at every inch she passed. Each brought Lucas a pleasant tickle of pleasure.  
  
          “Dany,” Lucas said.  
  
          Daenerys’s violet eyes flicked up at him, curious of his desire, as she froze in place. Her lips were mid-kiss atop his crown.  
  
          “Mount me.”  
  
          Lucas always enjoyed her mouth, but that wasn’t what he was craving. He wanted to be inside her, _truly_ inside her, and he didn’t want to wait.  
  
          Daenerys stood and straddled Lucas in his chair, putting her knees down at each side of him. She reached below herself and again closed a girlish hand around his manhood. She pointed it directly upwards, aligning it with her cunt. She lowered herself till they felt the first touch of their flesh, till his thick, aching crown prodded her moist, warm slit. Another tickle of pleasure wormed through Lucas’s loins.  
  
          Daenerys released her hand from Lucas’s cock and grabbed his shoulders. Then, as she gazed into his eyes, she eased herself downwards. His swollen crown slowly parted her soft slit, making her puffy cunt gape around him. As Daenerys sank, Lucas’s crown disappeared inside her, enveloped within her slick, swelteringly hot flesh.  
  
          When Daenerys lowered herself the last of the way, the rest of Lucas’s towering manhood rose inside her, gliding upwards with ease, despite her tightness. Her sopping wetness gave his large cock easy passage through her little cunt, allowing her closed sheath to open around him. She slid down till all of his length was inside her, till her groin met his and the pink lips of her gaped slit kissed his crotch. Her well-groomed cunt hairs and his coarse and unwieldly ones formed a messy thicket where their groins met, with some hairs scraggly and brown, others soft and silver-blonde. Daenerys’s tight cunt enveloped the entirety of Lucas’s long length, sheathing every inch from crown to root in heat and wetness. Lucas sighed at the feeling of it. Daenerys’s cunt was the same great pleasure it had always been. Motherhood hadn’t changed that.  
  
          It was still incredible to Lucas that Daenerys’s small body and even smaller cunt were ever able to take all of his cock. Such were the wonders of a woman.  
  
          With his cock satisfyingly sheathed to her hilt, Lucas leaned forward and took one of Daenerys’s pink nipples between his lips. When he suckled it, it promptly awarded him a squirt of milk onto his tongue. Daenerys’s milk was remarkably warm, almost hot, as though it were fresh from a pot above a fire. The intense inner heat of Daenerys’s body, her pure blood of the dragon, was evident throughout her. The taste of her milk was sweet and sugary, like a cream. It was a treat. With more suckling, more squirts followed. Lucas could’ve filled his belly with Daenerys’s milk, but he figured it was best not to, as he feared he could leave little of it remaining.  
  
          Lucas let Daenerys’s nipple pop from his lips. Her teat leaked a trickle of milk down her pale breast, eager to continue being suckled. Lucas thumbed the milk away.  
  
          Daenerys began swiveling her hips in Lucas’s crotch. The hot, wet flesh of her tight tunnel rolled around his stiff cock, swirling it with slow, smooth pleasure. Lucas groaned. He held Daenerys’s hips and threw his head back against the cushioned backrest of his chair. Daenerys languidly ground her groin into his, swiveling and twisting, shifting up and down and left and right.  
  
          “Gods that’s good,” Lucas said. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed this.  
  
          Lucas knew Daenerys would’ve readily ridden him to his finish entirely on her own if he asked it of her. She would’ve bounced on his groin like she was in the saddle of a horse. She had done it before. But Lucas didn’t want that, not this time. He was finished being idle. He’d been idle enough that day. He wanted her cunt, and he wanted to take it himself. He wanted to ravage her.  
  
          Without warning, Lucas firmly grabbed the cheeks of Daenerys’s arse. Her rump was not large, but it was cute and shapely. Motherhood seemed to have made it a little more squeezable than before. Lucas could sink his fingers further into the soft flesh, and with greater ease.  
  
          Using those cheeks like a handhold, Lucas pushed Daenerys’s arse down, impaling her slit cunt onto his cock. The friction of her cunt swiftly sheathing his length graced him with a warm bloom of pleasure in his loins. Lucas brought Daenerys’s arse back up and then promptly pushed it back down, just as sharply as before. He made a rhythm of that. He fucked her almost violently, audibly slapping her arse into his crotch at the bottom of every downward thrust. Daenerys’s little cunt was slick but gripping, and its lips and inner flesh visibly clung to Lucas’s cock every time he raised her up.  
  
          Lucas gazed into Daenerys’s violet eyes as he fucked himself with her arse. He leered at her with a fierceness. She mewled and panted as he had his way with her. Her hot breath puffed out from her pouty lips. Lucas leaned forward and buried his face between her breasts, savoring their warmth and softness against his shaven cheeks. He continued bouncing her arse in his groin, stroking his manhood with her cunt.  
  
          When Lucas withdrew from Daenerys’s breasts, he gazed at her face again. Her sweet moans drew his gaze to her mouth, to her moist, slightly parted lips. Lucas decided that he would have them. He wrapped an arm around Daenerys, pulled her down, tilted his head, and took her into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, to claim her with it as his cock claimed her cunt. Daenerys obliged his greedy tongue and greeted it with her own. It was a sloppy kiss. Soon the saliva in their mouths was as much the other’s as it was their own.  
  
          Lucas reached up and sank his fingers through the tresses of Daenerys’s long, silver-blonde hair. Her hair was so smooth and soft to the touch, more so than any silk. His other hand stayed fastened to her arse, squeezing it tight. His lust only grew as time passed. Lucas began thrusting his hips upwards, as much as he could while seated. He met Daenerys halfway every time, clapping his crotch into her jiggling arse.  
  
          Soon Lucas wanted to see Daenerys’s nakedness again, to _watch_ her flesh as well as feel it. He pulled away his tongue and gave her a final, pulling kiss so fierce that their lips smacked sharply as they parted. Lucas shifted his hands, grabbed Daenerys by the small of her waist, and brought the entirety of her body down with every thrust, making her perky breasts bounce wildly before his eyes.  
  
          Lucas’s pleasure grew like flames in a furnace. He was soon grunting. He would not last long. His manhood thickened inside Daenerys’s snug sheath, swelling as it prepared to spill its seed inside her. “I’m close,” Lucas said.  
  
          “Where do you want it?” Daenerys asked breathily.  
  
          A good question. In the time they’d been together, Lucas had spilled his seed just about everywhere in or on Daenerys at least once. On her face, inside her mouth, between her breasts, on her belly, on her bush, inside her cunt. Had he not just learned that she now carried his second child, he likely would’ve insisted on inseminating her, squirting into her womb and hoping his seed quickened inside her. But that job was done, and Lucas had utterly free reign to spill his seed wherever he saw fit. And thus, this time, he decided to let Daenerys make the choice. “Surprise me,” he said.  
  
          Daenerys bounced in Lucas’s crotch a little longer, her gaping cunt continuing to take his manhood to her hilt. Heat roiled within Lucas as pressure built within his loins. For a moment, Lucas was convinced that Daenerys would have him finish like that and shoot off inside her. But she was simply waiting, as he would soon realize, till the last possible moment. Daenerys had been bedded by Lucas often enough to know exactly when the last moment was. His was the only manhood she ever knew, the one that had deflowered her, the one that slid inside her nearly every night. She knew his cock as well as he did. Perhaps even better. After all, she knew its taste. And she was about to know it again.  
  
          When only a few thrusts remained before his end, Daenerys hurriedly dismounted from Lucas. His throbbing manhood slipped from her wet cunt with an audible shlick and swayed when it came free. Moving fast, Daenerys kneeled before Lucas, looked him in his eyes, and closed her mouth around his cock. Her cheeks hollowed as she took his manhood further between her sucking lips. As that seal of snug suction glided downwards, the sensitive underside of Lucas’s cock brushed against Daenerys’s tongue, and he was pleasured by suction, heat, and wetness all. Daenerys took Lucas far into her mouth, much farther than the first time he had her fellate him. Her nose soon touched the coarse hairs of his crotch as her moist, plump lips sealed around the throbbing base of his cock. Then, with his cock submerged in the hot mess of saliva in her mouth, with his crown in her throat, Daenerys began swiftly sucking Lucas off, bobbing her head up and down his cock.  
  
          Lewd sounds occasionally slipped from Daenerys’s lips as she worked, and Lucas’s cock was soon sloppy with a glossy and bubbly sheen of her saliva. Daenerys’s sealed lips sucking and stroking Lucas’s stiff cock was an intense pleasure, and his finish arrived only moments later.  
  
          Lucas groaned as the pressure in his loins burst. An inferno of hot pleasure rushed outwards from his core, leaving a blissful tingling in its wake. His cock visibly pulsated between Daenerys’s lips in orgasm, shooting what felt like thick ropes of seed into her maw. By some primal instinct, Lucas grabbed the back of Daenerys’s head to ensure that she kept her mouth on his cock, but it wasn’t needed. Daenerys’s big, violet eyes shone sweetly up at his as she kept her full lips sealed around his manhood, ensuring that he spilled every spurt, string, and drop of seed inside her mouth. Lucas’s chest heaved with ragged breath, frazzled by the incredibly intense pleasure.  
  
          When Lucas’s orgasm finally faded, Daenerys’s head slowly and sensually rose. She gently glided her mouth up his softening length, till his spent cock finally slipped from her puckered lips in a way that looked and sounded like the end of a long and loving kiss. Messy strands of saliva stretched from his crown to her lips till they broke and fell.  
  
          Daenerys opened her mouth wide and showed Lucas the mess within. Her tongue swam within a sea of white, bathed in his seed. She was certainly tasting it. Then, without a word, Daenerys closed her mouth, cocked her head back, and let Lucas see her throat bob. When she opened her mouth and showed him it again, no white remained. Her pink tongue was clean. His seed was gone, swallowed in one gulp.  
  
          Daenerys knew exactly what Lucas liked. When he took his pleasure between her legs, he liked seeing it inside her. When he took it inside her mouth, he liked seeing it go away.  
  
          Daenerys rose up and kissed him. “I love you,” she said.  
  
          “I love you too,” Lucas replied. “Consider me comforted,” he quipped with a smile.  
  
          That evening would be the last lighthearted one for many nights.  
  
          The next day began deceivingly calm. At midday, Lucas, Daenerys, Jace, Colton, Ser Barristan, Tobas, Clare, and Elayna all shared a chatty communal lunch together in the homestead’s kitchen. Jace had recently begun eating solid foods in addition to nursing from Daenerys. The lunch was seared fish freshly caught from the sea, the easiest food for them to acquire. It was cooked to perfection. It was flaky and moist, and it melted in one’s mouth when chewed. Meanwhile, the dragons were presumably hunting, as they usually did in the middle of the day. Rhaegon and Dreamwing most often preyed upon whatever large wildlife they found in the temperate lands around the less-traveled branches of the Rhoyne river. Often it was elk or boars, creatures that could perhaps defend themselves well from many predators but were helpless against dragonfire. Skyshark primarily preyed over the Summer Sea, tearing chunks of scorched flesh from any mammals that came to the surface, whether they be sea lions, dolphins, or even some small whales. Occasionally his siblings would join him.  
  
          Later that day, while the maids prepared supper, Lucas took and carried Jace at his side and went out. Something had spurred him into seeking a moment alone with him, father and son. They hadn’t had enough of those as of late.  
  
          Lucas sat on the beach by the homestead, close enough to the water that the scent of the Summer Sea could be deeply breathed, but far enough that the waves licking out over the sand could not touch him. It was a sickeningly sweltering day, almost as humid as it was hot. It was the sort of heat that made one’s clothes stick to their flesh. The Summer Sea’s breezes were a merciful, much-needed respite.  
  
          Lucas sat Jace in his lap. The heat never seemed to bother that boy much. His light attire aided that. He wore only a cloth diaper and shirt, both sewn by Clare’s hand. He was still a small boy, but he was plump and robust. He was a little over eight months of age. His shock of silver hair was wild and messy. Daenerys combed it every day, but Jace would often somehow manage to tousle it not hours later. His hair was noticeably paler than his mother’s. It was less blond and more silver. It was identical to Lucas’s father’s hair, Jace’s namesake.  
  
          At first, Jace sat facing Lucas, smiling and swaying from side to side, pawing at his father, touching his face and his hair. They played a game where whenever Jace pulled at Lucas’s face, Lucas warped his expression into something goofy and exaggerated. Each time, Jace burst into giggling laughter. Lucas laughed with him.  
  
          Not long after they sat down, a few gusts of wind were the only warning before Rhaegon landed loudly behind them. The red dragon crawled forward on his wings and claws till he stopped beside them. Rhaegon then lay at Lucas’s side, with his scaly brow touching his shoulder. Rhaegon was breathing rather heavily at first, doubtless fresh from a vigorous hunt. When Jace reached over and began petting his head, the dragon soon fell calm and quiet. That calmness was a rarity for the fierce and prideful beast. Jace brought that calmness out of Rhaegon like no one else could.  
  
          Jace cooed as he stroked the ruby-like scales of Rhaegon’s forehead. A low rumbling came from deep in the dragon’s throat, something Lucas could only liken to the purring of a cat, only much lower and much more menacing. With the bright sun shining upon his face, the pupils of Rhaegon’s yellow-gold eyes slimmed into razor-thin slits. Rhaegon’s wings were folded against his body. The sinewy, golden flesh that stretched between them seemed to be one of the few vulnerable places on his body. His scales were harder than steel. It would take more strength than a man could muster to drive a spear into any part of the dragon guarded by those scales. It was staggering how fast Rhaegon and his siblings were growing now that they were roaming free. Rhaegon seemed noticeably bigger than even the day before. He was almost twice as big as a warhorse now. Lucas would need to begin riding him soon. The thought made him both nervous and thrilled.  
  
          “Dagan,” Jace babbled happily. It had been the first recognizable word he’d ever spoken, not long ago.  
  
          “Dragon,” Lucas said, smiling. “That’s right.”  
  
          Lucas found himself gazing at the pale silver of Jace’s hair. It called to Lucas’s mind memories of his father.  
  
          His mother Marlaya, second child and eldest daughter of Lord Randar Tarly, had been eighteen when Lucas was born, a typical age, but his father Jacaerys had been eight-and-thirty at the time. The lack of what was considered a worthy wife for the king’s master of ships had prolonged his bachelorhood. Thus, Lucas had never known his father as a young man. When Lucas had come to the world, his father was already learned and accomplished. Nothing was a mystery to him. He could read others as simply as one reads a book, he had a tongue as silver as his hair, and he could wield a sword as well as any knight. To Lucas, everything had seemed so easy to his father. And that made Lucas’s early struggles with young manhood much more frustrating. But with enough effort, by learning from his father while he still lived and then continuing his teachings after his death, Lucas had shaped himself like a smith shapes steel. He wasn’t quite as calm or as wise as his father was, and he wasn’t sure if he ever could be, but he was _‘steady and strong,’_ as his father had said on his deathbed. That would have to be good enough. And just as Lucas was able to learn from his father, Jace would be able to learn from his. The deep satisfaction of that thought seemed to Lucas to be the sweetest fruit of fatherhood.  
  
          Lucas wondered if his father was watching him. If he was, was he proud? He must’ve been, surely. Lucas had seen one of his father’s greatest wishes come true. He had taken a Targaryen wife, just as the Lord of House Velaryon was meant to, as was so often done before. Dragon was wedded to dragon. And yet ... so much else remained uncertain. Had Lucas taken the right path? Had he acted too rashly? Had he acted too slowly? Lucas didn’t know. What he did know was that there was still a critical test he had yet to face. A test that proved some men and showed craven the others. Lucas’s father would’ve reserved judgement till his son had seen that test through. But when would it come?  
  
          Some time later, Skyshark roaring from somewhere above the ocean far in the distance stirred Lucas from his thoughts. The sapphire dragon’s call must’ve been a sort of challenge, because it instantly roused Rhaegon from his relaxation. Rhaegon rose on his legs and wings, brushing off Jace’s petting hand, and launched from the ground with a great gust that made Lucas’s and Jace’s hair flutter. Jace clapped happily as he watched Rhaegon beat his wings and fly off into the distance. The dragon roared as he soared away.  
  
          Not long after that, Jace grew fussy and restless. Lucas figured that he had likely grown hungry. Lucas clutched his son against his side and stood to his feet.  
  
          As Lucas walked back to the homestead, he saw that Colton had for some bizarre reason lit the campfire between the house and the stable. He was gazing into the flickering flames. Ser Barristan stood nearby. The old knight took a sip from his waterskin, and then abruptly poured it out atop his head to cool himself.  
  
          Daenerys was standing by the house’s open door. She was waiting for Lucas. It seemed she had suspected that Jace would have grown hungry by then. She smiled as Lucas carried their boy to her. “Is he hungry?” she asked.  
  
          “Seems so,” Lucas said.  
  
          “Here, my sweet,” Daenerys cooed lovingly as she took Jace from Lucas’s arms. She pulled open the deep neck of her gown and brought Jace to the pink teat of her pale breast. Lucas saw that her breast was glistening with beads of sweat. It wasn’t much cooler inside the house than it was out. “Awfully hot today,” Daenerys noted as she looked to Lucas.  
  
          “Like the seventh hell,” Lucas said. “Go on inside and have Tobas fan you both. I don’t want either of you ill from the heat.”  
  
          “Alright,” Daenerys said.  
  
          Lucas sent her on her way with a quick kiss on her lips and a gentle pat on her arse. Then he turned to Colton and the burning campfire. “Are you mad?” he asked, partly amused and partly angered. “Put the fire out. It’s sweltering out here.”  
  
          Colton wiped the sweat from his brow. “The red priests say they can see visions in flames,” he said. “I think they’re full of shit. I can’t see anything.”  
  
          “Of course they’re full of shit. There’s no such thing as their _‘Lord of Light.’_ Now put the bloody fire out.”  
  
          Colton rose and stood to his feet. He grabbed the handles of the large cauldron of water above the fire and upended it. The flames let out an angry hiss as the water crashed over it. After poking the ashes around some with a stick, the fire was fully dead.  
  
          Then, when Colton turned to face Lucas, figures appeared behind him, coming out from behind the stable. Lucas’s eyes bulged a bit when he saw them. Colton noticed something was wrong from his expression. “What?” he asked. Then he turned around and saw the same that Lucas did.  
  
          A party of nine men with an enclosed cart drawn by two horses approached. All had olive skin, black hair, and brown eyes. Some had bald heads or bald faces, but most had thick, curly hair and scraggly, wiry beards. A few had connected eyebrows. They all looked to be young men, and they were all around the same average build and height, not tall but not short, fit but not muscular. They were lightly dressed in simple garb of linen vestments, linen trousers, and leather boots. All nine of the men wore swords at their left hips, and theirs were strange in shape. The blades were curved, not straight.  
  
          When they came to a stop, the man atop the cart’s right horse stepped out of his saddle and came down. His curls and beard were close-cropped, and his eyes were hazel, not dark brown like the others. He was perhaps the eldest of them. He approached Lucas with a smile that seemed genuine, and the brief bow he granted Lucas seemed no less so. “Greetings, friends,” he said. “My name is Khrazar mo Dhazak. My companions and I are men of Meereen.” There was a strange crudeness to his words. His Bastard Valyrian accent was different from those in the Free Cities. Lucas presumed it was the accent typical to his people. He had never spoken to a man of Meereen. But he knew enough about the city to fear its men’s intentions. Meereen’s mastery of slavery made Volantis’s pale in comparison.  
  
          Lucas considered readying his hand atop the hilt of his sheathed sword, but he decided otherwise. He thought it best not to, yet. “You’re a long way from Slaver’s Bay,” Lucas replied, speaking in Bastard Valyrian as well.  
  
          “Yes, but we’re needed far and wide. Our mission is a very important one,” Khrazar said.  
  
          “What mission would that be?” Lucas asked.  
  
          “Our wondrous city suffered a plague not long ago, as you may know. Our stock of slaves is now rather meager. I and others have travelled to the Free Cities to replenish it.” Khrazar pointed a finger to the east, in the direction of Volantis, and then to the west. “My party and I were riding from Volantis to the Orange Shore when we happened to see the smoke from your fire.”  
  
          “And what do you want with us?”  
  
          “We seek bed slaves,” Khrazar explained. “Our brothels were hurt most of all during the plague. We’re paying good coin, mind you. Thirty honors for any female of childbearing age. Sixty if they’re young. A hundred if they’re young and pretty. You three look to be wealthy, and unless you’re all intimate with each other, I’m going to guess that you’ve some females in that home behind you. So, come now, trade us them for our coin. You’ll never receive a better offer than this, that I assure you.”  
  
          “We’re Westerosi,” Lucas said, speaking both sternly and pridefully. “We keep no slaves. Now turn around and leave this place.”  
  
          Just then, behind Lucas, the house’s door swung open. “Lucas?” Daenerys called out as she appeared in the doorway, wearing a smile. When she saw the unfamiliar men, her smile vanished.  
  
          Lucas whipped his head towards her. “Go back inside,” he said.  
  
          Daenerys swiftly retreated and shut the door.  
  
          When Lucas looked back to Khrazar, he saw a sinister glimmer in the slaver’s hazel eyes. Khrazar’s lips curled into a wide grin. “And who is that young beauty?” he asked. “Can’t be older than fifteen. That silver hair of hers is a rare sight in my city. Quite the delicacy. Yes, that girl would be very popular. One of the Great Masters might even take her as a personal pet.”  
  
          A heat flashed in Lucas’s face. His chest tightened.  
  
          “Mind your tongue, slaver,” Ser Barristan growled.  
  
          “I say we cut the savage’s tongue from his mouth,” Colton suggested.  
  
          “Easy now, friends,” Khrazar said, briefly raising his hands. “I trust that you all can count, and as you can see, there are nine of us, and only three of you. And I have just decided that we will not be leaving your home empty-handed. Now, I enjoy business much more than bloodshed, so, please, allow me to pay you for that silver-haired girl. Three hundred honors is more than fair, yes?”  
  
          Lucas’s brow lowered, his expression hardening. “Leave this place. I won’t ask you again.”  
  
          “No, see, you’ve only two choices,” Khrazar said, as though it were a matter of utter fact. “You can live to see the morrow as richer men, or you can die here today, in vain.”  
  
          Colton laughed. It was one of his typical closemouthed chuckles, smug and certain. “You’re the ones that’ll die here today, and it won’t be pretty,” he told them. “At least you’ll all be part of history.”  
  
          “‘History?’” Khrazar said with a single raised eyebrow, mildly confused but largely uncaring.  
  
          “History,” Colton repeated. “A new dawn. The world’s changed. You just didn’t know it till now.”  
  
          Khrazar pointed at Colton as his gaze returned to Lucas. “This one thins my patience. I suggest you make your decision now.”  
  
          “As you wish,” Lucas said. Then, all at once, Lucas drew his sword from his scabbard to the sound of singing steel, cocked back his head, and shouted “Rhaegon, Dreamwing, Skyshark!” into the skies, roaring their names as loudly as his voice could muster.  
  
          A hissing symphony filled the air as everyone else drew their steel. Colton and Ser Barristan came forward and joined each of Lucas’s sides, their swords readied same as his. Ser Barristan had donned his helm.  
  
          “That was a mistake, my friend,” Khrazar said as he and the other slavers stared them down. “Three more men aren’t going to save you.”  
  
          Lucas shook his head as he brought his sword to his hip. “They’re not men.”  
  
          Khrazar arranged his fellow slavers around himself with his commands. “Qazdol, Meisnan, Gezlok, and Gighdas, kill the old one in the steel suit. Erdas, Ozhal, kill the skinny one with the long hair. Ondas and Mazdiq, with me. We’ll kill the leader.”  
  
          “Thought it would be a little longer before we spilled blood together,” Colton said softly, quiet enough that the slavers could not hear.  
  
          “Afraid not,” Lucas replied.  
  
          “These aren’t great odds.”  
  
          “For now. Just need to bide time.”  
  
          “Stay on the move,” Ser Barristan said. “Don’t let yourself become surrounded. Keep them in front of you.”  
  
          That was the last they were able to speak. The slavers shouted and charged them.  
  
          Steel crashed and clanged as sword struck sword. Men yelled and hollered as droplets of spittle and sweat flung about. Lucas and the others managed to fend off that first clash, but only that. The swarm of slavers and swinging steel forced them to separate and retreat. True to Khrazar’s commands, four slavers pursued Ser Barristan, two pursued Colton, and the final three, including Khrazar, pursued Lucas.  
  
          Lucas fought as he fled and fled as he fought. The grass crunched beneath his feet with every backwards step. Sweat dripped from his hair onto his face. He kept his head on a constant swivel, ensuring the slavers stayed in his vision. There were three swords to his one, and it was all he could do to backpedal and parry each strike as it came. His steps were smooth and swift, and his hands no less so. Each moment a sword came his way, his own sword was there, meeting it in the air, creating a song of steel.  
  
          Lucas greatly wished he was wearing his armor, but he wasn’t about to try to run inside the house and bring the slavers with him. He would have to manage as he was. Caution would have to rule him.  
  
          When Lucas spotted what looked to be an opening, he chanced a lunge at one of the slavers, the shortest one, Mazdiq. The slaver only barely managed to bring his curved sword up against Lucas’s, redirecting his strike to slice the air beside his head. In the short moment of that one lunge, the other two slavers had circled to Lucas’s sides. Lucas darted away and brought his sword back just before Khrazar’s blade could bite into his outstretched arm.  
  
          Moments later, Lucas had retreated to the side of the stable. The wall was a shield, an angle he could not be attacked from. The slavers were still upon him, never slowing. “Fight like a man, cunt!” the third slaver, Ondas, shouted at him. Ondas lunged and brought his blade in a heavy sideways swing. Lucas avoided it with ease, and the edge of the slaver’s curved sword bit deep into the stable’s plastered wall with a crunch. Ondas yanked once on his sword, but it did not come free.  
  
          What came next happened in a flash of motion. Lucas shot forward and brought his sword down hard. The sharp steel of his blade cleaved through the wrist of Ondas’s right arm, splitting both flesh and bone. Blood sprayed out from his stump limb, painting the pale plaster of the stable bright red. Ondas screamed, but when Lucas swiftly brought his blade again and bit it into the side of the slaver’s neck, he quieted.  
  
          Lucas stepped away as Khrazar and Mazdiq swiped the air where he once was. Ondas collapsed onto the grass, dead. His severed hand still clutched the stuck sword.  
  
          Khrazar gave his slain companion only a brief glance.  
  
          The slavers rushed Lucas with a renewed vigor. Lucas’s eyes flicked from side to side as he defended their onslaught, his sword shooting left and right to meet steel with steel. Some parries were much too close, and when the clangs of steel were by Lucas’s ear, they were almost deafening.  
  
          Before long, the slavers had forced Lucas onto the beach. Soft sand rustled around his feet. The angry Summer Sea’s strong waves rushed noisily nearby, grasping as far over the sand as it could reach. Still Lucas retreated, waiting for an opening, parrying the strikes that had to be and dodging those that didn’t. He was pouring sweat. His shirt was damp against his back, and his hands were soaked.  
  
          Then, in one of his steps backwards, Lucas’s foot caught on a small rock hidden in the sand, and he fell onto the flat of his back. He hit the sand with a thud that took the breath out of his lungs. The slavers rushed forward and thrusted at him. Lucas tucked his sword flat against himself and rolled as fast as he could. Twice he heard the sound of steel sticking into sand.  
  
          Lucas scrambled onto his feet. As he arose, he held the grip of his sword in only one hand. The two slavers fast approached. When they drew near, Lucas threw into Khrazar’s eyes the fistful of sand he’d grabbed when he was on his back. Khrazar clutched at his face and staggered away, grunting in pain. He fumbled for the waterskin at his belt. Mazdiq looked at Khrazar. When he looked to Lucas again, he found Lucas charging him.  
  
          Lucas unleashed an assault upon him, flush with feints and furious thrusts and cuts. Now it was the slaver who backpedaled. When Lucas brought a slashing, diagonal cut, Mazdiq swiftly met his sword. Their sharp blades crossed and stuck as edge caught against edge. Lucas let his arms fold as he went forward, bringing his body to Mazdiq’s. Mazdiq spat at Lucas’s face when he came close. The saliva hit his cheek. A waste of an attack. Lucas had a better one.  
  
          Lucas released his left hand from his locked sword and wrapped the freed arm around Mazdiq’s hands, trapping them. For as long as the slaver held his sword, he was ensnared. Lucas spun away and twisted Mazdiq’s sword till the slaver’s wrists could not bear to bend any further. Mazdiq dropped his sword onto the sand, and the moment Lucas felt the weapon fall free, he spun around to face Mazdiq and slashed the slaver below the navel.  
  
          The blade cut deep, slicing Mazdiq’s shirt and splitting open his belly. His innards spilled out from the gaping wound. Mazdiq clutched at them with both hands as if to keep them inside, but he could not. He collapsed, falling first to his knees, and then to the flat of his back. Lucas wiped the spit from his cheek.  
  
          When Lucas heard boots stamping in the sand, he spun around and parried the coming blow from Khrazar. It wasn’t a clean parry. The sharp edge of Khrazar’s blade found the smooth broad of Lucas’s, and steel then hissed as the slaver’s sword slid downwards. When Khrazar’s blade arrived at Lucas’s crossguard, the slaver tilted his sword forward and drew the blade across the back of Lucas’s right hand. Pain shot through Lucas as Khrazar’s steel opened his flesh.  
  
          Lucas stepped away and glanced at his hand. Blood rushed from the wound and seeped down to his wrist. Lucas opened and closed his injured hand on his sword, testing it. He could still feel it, could still grip with it. He could still fight.  
  
          Lucas’s eyes flicked up at the slaver. Khrazar wore a wicked grin, pleased with his work. He played with his curved sword, effortlessly spinning it about. Then, at the end of one of his sword’s spins, he abruptly charged.  
  
          Lucas didn’t let his wound slow him. He fought with the same speed and ferocity he had before. He met the slaver’s sword with his own each time the slaver struck at him. Steel sang over the sound of the Summer Sea’s waves as Lucas and Khrazar danced across the beach.  
  
          Then, for the first such time in the battle, Lucas feinted a lunge but then took an extra step and twisted his strike into a horizontal slice. Khrazar had sidestepped the lunge and the lunge only. The farthest few inches of the tip of Lucas’s sword cut across the side of Khrazar’s torso, rending cloth and flesh. Blood welled from the wound. It wasn’t deep enough to disable him, but it was deep enough for him to feel it.  
  
          Khrazar winced as he clutched at his wound. His grin was gone. “You should’ve taken the coin, Westerosi,” he hissed at Lucas between gritted teeth. “I’m going to make that girl suffer after I’ve shackled her. She’ll remember me for the rest of her life. I’ll bleed her for every drop of mine you’ve spilled.” He took his hand from his wound and showed it to Lucas. His palm was slick with a sheen of red. “Blood for blood,” he said.  
  
          Lucas slowly shook his head. “She won’t even know your name when you’re dead. You’re nothing. You’ll die as nothing.”  
  
          Khrazar’s face twisted into something awful, a hideous and horrific scowl that only a crazed fiend from a nightmare could create. He let out a manic shout and charged.  
  
          When Khrazar came upon Lucas, he attacked with a frenzied speed he hadn’t yet shown. Khrazar’s curved sword flicked out at Lucas like the tongue of a snake, with slices and thrusts that a blink would’ve missed, coming high, low, from the left, from the right. When Khrazar slowed and winded up a mighty strike from Lucas’s right, Lucas readied himself for it, but when the slaver’s arm uncoiled, his sword dipped down and sprang at him from below.  
  
          Lucas shifted his sword to parry it, but for the first time, his hands weren’t fast enough. The middle of Khrazar’s blade caught hard under Lucas’s crossguard. Lucas’s hands, slick with sweat, could not keep hold of his sword, and the force of the strike tore his sword from his grip and flung it far away.  
  
          Lucas began to backpedal, but he was already leaning from the force of the disarm, and he tripped and fell flat on his bottom. Khrazar came down on him in an instant, shouting from that hideous scowl, bringing his blade.  
  
          But Khrazar’s shout was drowned out by a roar, and a blur of red and gold tackled him to the sand. Lucas whipped his head to the left. A few yards away, Khrazar was on his back. Rhaegon stood atop him, his ruby scales shining under the setting sun, his golden wings spread far and wide. One of Rhaegon’s muscular claws pinned Khrazar’s chest. A low growl rumbled from the dragon’s throat as he looked over the slaver. A rope of saliva drooled from between his tall, sharp teeth.  
  
          Khrazar’s eyes were wide. There was true terror in them.  
  
          Lucas gave the command. “Dracarys.” It was High Valyrian for: _‘Dragonfire.’  
_  
          Rhaegon opened his maw. A red light glowed at the back of his throat, like the first flicker of a furnace. Then came the flames.  
  
          Khrazar screamed as a stream of blood-red dragonfire rushed from Rhaegon’s maw and poured over his face. His curly hair burned away, incinerated to ash. His olive flesh scorched into a charred black. His eyes boiled till they burst.  
  
          The charred flesh smelled same as any rack of meat roasting over an open flame. But the burnt hair smelled rotten.  
  
          When Khrazar fell silent, Rhaegon darted his maw down, sank his teeth into the slaver’s head, and then twisted and pulled. With a series of sickening pops, Rhaegon beheaded him. No blood flowed from the blackened stump of his neck. The veins and arteries were cauterized, burnt shut. Rhaegon cocked back and opened his maw, letting the scorched, severed head fall down his throat, swallowing it whole.  
  
          In the distance, at the homestead, Dreamwing and Skyshark descended from the sky, breathing gouts of their colorful dragonfire, spewing streams of white and blue. The screams of slavers rang out across the land.  
  
          Lucas’s heart was racing, and his stomach felt like a knot of twisted flesh, but somehow, he kept some amount of presence of mind. When Rhaegon looked his way, Lucas pointed to the homestead. “Sēnagon tolvys!” he shouted. It was High Valyrian for: _‘Kill them all.’_  
  
          Rhaegon promptly launched and took to the sky. The dragon flew to the homestead and descended there. He disappeared behind the stable as he joined his siblings in the slaughter.  
  
          As Lucas’s nerves settled, he felt a blazing anger arise in its place, burning hot in his chest. He was trembling with rage. He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his sword from the sand nearby, and stormed over to the man that dared to try to take his life and enslave his wife. He stabbed the corpse again and again, grunting with each thrust.  
  
          When his crazed anger abated, Lucas kneeled and cleaned his blade of blood with the slaver’s shirt. “Headless cunt,” Lucas muttered. “Died too quick. Deserved worse.” He stood to his feet again. When he remembered the others, he turned and hurried off.  
  
          The slavers’ screams had been hushed to a deathly quiet by the time Lucas came to stand in the middle of the homestead, between the stable and the house. The dragons picked at a few charred corpses, tearing away the occasional limb to devour. Ser Barristan and Colton stood at each other’s side looking over the carnage. Their chests heaved with breath. Their swords were sheathed. Colton’s clothes were darkened with sweat, and his long hair was slicked against his neck. Ser Barristan looked only slightly less ragged. His armor had earned some scratches and dents. Lucas was thankful that they both seemed unharmed.  
  
          When Ser Barristan saw Lucas, he hurried over to him. “Are you injured, Your Grace?” he asked.  
  
          Lucas sheathed his sword in his scabbard and showed Ser Barristan the cut on his hand, his only wound. “I’ll have Clare clean and dress it,” he said. Then he lowered his hand and met the old knight’s eyes. “I’d be dead right now if you hadn’t been training me,” he said.  
  
          Ser Barristan smiled at him. “Then it’s good that you were wise enough to ask it of me.”  
  
          Lucas shook his head, suddenly stricken with gloom. “He beat me,” he admitted quietly, almost in a whisper. “Their leader. He was going to kill me when Rhaegon saved me.”  
  
          Ser Barristan put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Eight months of sparring isn’t much, Your Grace. We’ll keep at it. We’ll have you sharper yet.”  
  
          _“Gods_ that was great!” Colton whooped, laughing heartily. “The smug savages were so bloody confident. I warned them it wouldn’t be pretty, didn’t I?” When Colton turned around, Lucas saw a split in the back of his shirt that bared a tall, bright-red cut. The blood that had oozed from the cut was smeared with a sheen of sweat.  
  
          “You’re wounded,” Lucas said. The cut looked like it should’ve been abominably painful.  
  
          Colton turned to face Lucas again. “Am I? I can’t even feel it. I imagine I will next morning though.”  
  
          Lucas let out a weak laugh. “I imagine we’ll _all_ be feeling a lot next morning.” He looked over the corpses strewn about. “Gather them in a pile,” he commanded. “I’ve a plan for disposing of them.”  
  
          Ser Barristan and Colton obeyed and joined Lucas in piling the corpses and spilled viscera into a large heap, including those that had been cut down away from the homestead. It was a grisly sight. Lucas’s stomach turned as he looked upon it.  
  
          “Rhaegon, Dreamwing, Skyshark,” Lucas called out for them. They approached and faced the pile of corpses. Dark blood dripped from their maws. “Dracarys,” Lucas said.  
  
          Shimmering streams of dragonfire poured over the pile of corpses. It was a dazzlingly colorful inferno, shot with red, orange, yellow, white, and blue. The combined blaze was hotter than all the seven hells. Lucas could feel the heat of it upon his face, even standing from afar like he was.  
  
          When the dragonfire finally ceased and the last flame flickered away, all that remained was a pile of black ash. Then, without a command, Rhaegon stretched his wings and beat them in one great flap. The resulting gust blasted the ashes and sent them sailing far into the wind.  
  
          Lucas strode to the slavers’ cart. The two horses attached to it had whinnied wildly when the dragons breathed their fire, but they had since calmed. Lucas was not sure what should be done with them. At the side of the cart, near the front, was a pull-down door with a latch. It was fastened shut with a steel deadbolt. Lucas pulled the deadbolt aside, grabbed the latch, and yanked it down. The door came free vertically and thudded into the grass. There were descending rungs on the back of it, and it formed a sort of staircase when opened. Lucas climbed the steps and entered the cart.  
  
          Inside were no fewer than a dozen terrified women in chains, shackled at their wrists and feet. Their chains connected them all. When they saw Lucas, they chattered fearfully in a tongue he didn’t understand. It wasn’t Bastard Valyrian, nor the Common Tongue of the Seven Kingdoms. It was perhaps Dothraki. They indeed looked like women of those horse people, with their copper skin, almond eyes, and black, very long hair. A few looked to be around thirty, but the majority were much younger. The youngest looked to be twelve. They all wore tattered rags. They stunk of body odor and of things even fouler, of urine and feces.  
  
          _How long have they all been chained in here?_ Lucas wondered. He wouldn’t let himself imagine Daenerys in those chains, stewing in her own filth. He would slaughter thousands more slavers if it would mean that fate never befell her.  
  
          “I’m not here to hurt you,” Lucas assured them in Bastard Valyrian. He spoke both gently and loudly, ensuring his voice could be heard over theirs. “I’m here to free you. Come on out.” He gestured towards himself with his hands. They quieted somewhat when he spoke. Likely understanding his hands better than his words, they slowly arose and cautiously stepped towards him, following him out of the cart. Their chains rattled noisily as they walked.  
  
          Lucas went and stood in front of the dragons. As the women and girls stepped out of the cart, one by one they saw the dragons, and one by one they fell to their hands and knees. They bowed their heads and began babbling again in their tongue. Eventually, they were all bowed in a line in front of Lucas.  
  
          “What are they saying?” Colton asked as he came to Lucas’s side.  
  
          “I don’t know,” Lucas said, glancing his way. “I don’t speak their tongue. I think it’s Dothraki.” Lucas looked to the women and girls again. “Do you any of you speak Bastard Valyrian, or the Common Tongue?” he asked as he alternated languages at the end.  
  
          One of the bowed heads finally looked up from the earth. “I speak Bastard Valyrian,” the woman said. She was the eldest among them. She looked to be in her mid-thirties. She was a plain, homely woman. Her hair was rough and wiry, and her eyes were small and sunken. When she spoke, the others soon hushed themselves.  
  
          “What is your name?” Lucas asked her.  
  
          “Charri,” she answered.  
  
          “Charri, stand to your feet.” She did as Lucas asked, watching the dragons with nervous eyes. On her feet, Lucas saw that she was a short woman, noticeably overweight, with a soft, sagging swell in her belly that did not seem to be carrying a child. “Tell the others that the dragons will not harm them,” Lucas said. “They’re the reason you’ve all been freed.”  
  
          Charri turned to those around her and spoke to them in their tongue. Then, slowly, the others joined her and stood to their feet. Many of them continued to gaze upon the dragons, awed by the sight of them.  
  
          “Where are the harpy men?” Charri asked as she glanced at the various splatterings of darkened blood on the grass.  
  
          “Ash on the wind,” Lucas said.  
  
          Charri looked to the north, where the Summer Sea’s breezes were blowing. Then she looked to the dragons. When her eyes finally returned to Lucas, she nodded.  
  
          “I’ll have your chains struck from you. It might take some time, but when that’s finished, you’ll all be free to leave,” Lucas explained. “I suggest you take the cart and horses with you. We’ve no need for them. We might have some fish to send you on your way with as well.”  
  
          “You have our eternal thanks, dragonlord,” Charri said. “If there is anything we could gift you in return for this, you shall have it.”  
  
          “No repayment is needed. All I ask is that you tell no one of this place. We want no more company here. Will you swear that to me?”  
  
          “I swear it on the sun, the moon, and all my ancestors in the night lands,” Charri said. She spoke again to the others in her tongue. They all looked to Lucas and nodded.  
  
          Then something came to Lucas’s mind. “Actually, there is something else I would ask of you. Are you planning to head to Volantis?”  
  
          Charri shook her head. “They will chain us again if we go there. And if we return to the Great Grass Sea, many of the Khals there will do the same. We will make our way to Braavos. There are no slaves in Braavos. It is known.”  
  
          Lucas nodded thoughtfully. It was a wise course of action, though it made them less useful for his request. Still, they could perhaps help during their journey. “I want you to spread a whisper to any slaves you meet on the way there,” Lucas said. “Tell it to as many as you can. Keep it from their master’s ears if you can, but it’s alright if they hear it.”  
  
          “What is the whisper?”  
  
          “Tell them ... ‘when the dragons dawn, our chains are broken.’ Remember that. Now say it exactly as I have.”  
  
          “‘When the dragons dawn, our chains are broken,’” Charri repeated. Then she spoke to the others in her tongue again. Eventually, they began repeating a translation of his words, till they’d all learned it. Charri looked to Lucas again. “When will this dawn come?” she asked.  
  
          “You just saw it.”


	4. Chapter 4

**LUCAS  
**  
          When her lacy nightgown slipped away, only her cotton underskirt remained. Everything above it was bare: broad hips and tiny waist and child-swollen belly and milk-leaking breasts all. Her flesh was utterly pale, and the gentle candlelight gave it an almost ghostly white glow. Long tresses of silver-blonde hair fell past her shoulders, freshly brushed, as smooth and soft as a silvery gold silk, and it too glowed in the candlelight, shining healthily. Lucas’s hands went to her hips. Her flesh was so very warm to his touch, as though coursing through her veins was liquid fire. _‘Fire Is Our Blood,’ her house’s words should perhaps be,_ Lucas thought to himself. And she was even warmer when she was with child. Lucas had learned that the first time, when Daenerys carried Jace in her womb.  
  
          Lucas need not have wondered how warm Daenerys’s cunt was. He knew the answer, and he knew it well. He’d been inside it what must’ve been a thousand times, whether with tongue or cock. Most often it was the former right before the latter. A thousand times, and yet it was always the same great thrill. _Now for the one-thousandth and one,_ he decided. But he would take his time. There were other places Lucas could appreciate before he stripped away the last of his wife’s clothes, before he enjoyed that treasure between her legs.  
  
          Lucas cupped each of Daenerys’s ripe, perky breasts. They were not large and could not fill his hands, but they were a delight to fondle and caress nonetheless. Her bosom was as smooth and warm as her other flesh, but her little pink nipples were a different tale. The stiff nubs were noticeably hotter than the rest of her. It was a wonder that the thin dribbles of milk trickling from them were not steaming.  
  
          Lucas’s hands brushed over his wife’s breasts, moving south. He caressed her swollen belly, which would be even more swollen in the days to come. She was six months along. They did not know if it would be a boy or a girl, as there was no medicine man on their homestead, but Lucas did not mind not knowing. They had their heir now. He would be content with either. All that mattered to him was that they were healthy afterwards, Daenerys and the babe both. Clare once assured Lucas that there was little reason to fear for his wife. Though Daenerys was a petite young thing, she _‘has a woman’s hips,’_ as Clare had said, and that mattered most.  
  
          When Lucas’s gaze rose to Daenerys’s violet eyes, he found them big and gleaming, gazing up at him with innocent desire. No matter how many times he fucked her, she always had that same look of innocence when he took her to bed. _She’s no fool. She knows I love it._  
  
          But that was enough spectating. Lucas was done admiring the mere sight of his wife. He wanted her. He wanted to taste her.  
  
          Without a word, Lucas leaned into Daenerys and pushed his lips onto hers, taking her into a kiss. As short as she was, he had to tilt his head more down than to the side, but that was no bother to him. He liked towering over her.  
  
          Their lips danced an intimate dance, with fleshy and audible smooches and sucks. Daenerys’s lips were full, soft, warm, and moist, and it was easy for Lucas to joyously lose himself in all those sensations. Their noses gently grazed as their breath puffed from them and poured out over each other. More than once, Lucas took Daenerys’s bottom lip between his teeth, nibbled it, and tugged it an inch away before letting it spring back into place. When he bored of playing with only her lips, he let out his tongue and thrusted it into his submissive wife’s waiting mouth. With his tongue he messily wrestled down hers, exuding a great deal of his saliva into her mouth.  
  
          It thrilled Lucas, claiming Daenerys’s mouth, thrusting into her his tongue, though not as much as it would soon thrill him to claim her between her legs, to thrust into her there. There was nothing so primally satisfying as unleashing his furious lust upon his wife and utterly dominating her. The same thought often came to Lucas in these moments: Daenerys was his queen, but he was her king.  
  
          Lucas pulled his lips from Daenerys’s and craned his head further down, to her modestly sized but perfectly perky bosom. Lucas closed his mouth over the bright pink teat of her left breast and suckled a squirt of milk out of it. It was hot and sweet and creamy, a delight to his tongue and a nourishment to his belly. After drawing a few more squirts of hot milk from that teat and then a few from the other, Lucas went back up to give Daenerys another deep kiss, invading her mouth with his tongue once more. He wondered if she could taste her milk.  
  
          Lucas’s lust was a restless and wandering one, and soon he again pulled his lips from his wife’s. He crouched slowly down onto his knees, leaving a trail of kisses on Daenerys’s pregnant belly as he moved south. Once he’d lowered far enough, he took hold of the waistband of her underskirt.  
  
          But then he stopped himself. An idea had struck him. He grabbed the flare of Daenerys’s hips and wordlessly urged her to turn around, which she promptly did. With her arse in his face, Lucas’s hands went to her underskirt’s waistband again. It was then that he drew them down in one sharp, hungry yank, making her underskirt plummet to the floor and settle at her feet. Lucas’s gaze swiftly focused on the bare flesh before him.  
  
          Daenerys’s little arse was cute and pert, almost bubble-shaped, and though it too was small, it was plenty squeezable. He had proved that many times before, and now would again. He squeezed her arse in his large hands, sinking his strong fingers into her supple cheeks, till they left fleeting, discolored prints on her pale, smooth flesh. Lucas gave her arse a few light, audible _thwaps_ with one hand, not sharply, but just firmly enough to make the cheeks jiggle left and right. Lucas wasn’t sure which he liked best, seeing her perky breasts jiggle, or her arse. Daenerys giggled cutely at the playful touch.  
  
          Then another unusual idea struck Lucas. He grabbed Daenerys’s arse and unceremoniously pried her cheeks apart, revealing her arsehole. It was a pink, wrinkled rosebud, the very same bright pink as the slit cunt between her legs and the little nipples on her breasts. It was still unspoiled, that rosebud. It was nearly two years ago that Lucas ago had taken Daenerys’s maidenhead, and yet he still had not explored her arsehole. Lucas knew that men made love to women’s arses on occasion, but he’d never tried it with his wife. And as tightly coiled as that ring of flesh was, it looked like it would’ve been hesitant to admit one of Lucas’s fingers, much less his large manhood.  
  
          Stricken with both lust and curiosity, Lucas leaned forward, keeping Daenerys’s cheeks pried apart, and brushed the flat of his tongue against her arsehole. It didn’t have much of a taste, no different than any other part of her skin. It certainly didn’t have the strong taste her wet cunt always had. Daenerys jolted at the strangeness of that place being touched by Lucas’s tongue, but she giggled again all the same. “What’re you doing?” she asked, humorously bewildered. She glanced down at him from over her shoulder.  
  
          “Exploring you,” Lucas answered coolly with a smile and shrug.  
  
          “That’s not a place for pleasure,” Daenerys said, but there was an almost childlike uncertainty to her words. “Is it?”  
  
          Lucas chuckled. “It might be. But not tonight.” With that, Lucas took his hands away, let her cheeks close, and gave her cute arse a short series of parting pats.  
  
          More and more Lucas was wondering how it would feel were he to finally deflower her arsehole. _That’ll be best saved for a special occasion,_ he decided. Daenerys wouldn’t mind, he knew, so long as he would be gentle. There was nothing she wouldn’t let him do to her, because she knew he would never hurt her, and would never let her _be_ hurt. A husband and wife’s union was a fairly simple one, and Lucas had been taught it well: a wife was her husband’s domain, but so too was a husband to protect his wife, doubly so for a lord to his lady, and triply so a king to his queen.  
  
          Lucas grabbed the flare of Daenerys’s hips again and turned her back around, so that she and her cunt faced him. Where her smooth thighs met, her pale, milky-white crotch was lightly furred with soft, well-groomed cunt hairs of the same silver-blonde as the hair of her head. Lucas loved those adorable shorthairs. He loved their exotic color, he loved the way they tickled his face when he tasted her, and perhaps most of all, he loved that they didn’t conceal the sight of her sex. Daenerys’s puffy, cleft cunt was swollen with arousal. The tight slit of bright pink tucked within was so shiningly wet that it glistened brightly in the candlelight, glittering like the treasure it was. Being swollen with child did more than make Daenerys’s flesh warmer. It made her wetter as well.  
  
          With two fingers Lucas opened her puffy cunt, spreading wide her slim inner lips. He spent a long moment admiring the flesh within, gazing upon all the sheer pinkness and all the shining moisture. So much pink, and all of it so wet. Crowning her spread cunt, her clitoris was as petite as the rest of her, a puny, pink button cloaked by a tall, thin hood. It was no larger than a pea, and yet it was so very sensitive to any and all touch. The moment Lucas’s fingers left her, Daenerys’s cunt closed into its resting state, into a tight, slim slit of pink.  
  
          Lucas stood straight, took Daenerys’s hand, and led her to their bed, where she obeyed his wordless command to lie. She got onto their bed and lay on her back across it, so that her lower half faced the bedside. As Lucas approached, he yanked down his cotton breeches and stepped out of them. The feeling of his achingly erect manhood stabbing into the fabric had grown quite grating. His manhood sprang free, stiffer than steel as it stood tall at attention, eager for a sheath of warm flesh. It lightly bounced with the hammering beats of his heart. At the base of his cock was a coarse thicket of brown, curling shorthairs, and swaying below that was his cod, made loose by the heat.  
  
          Daenerys’s legs were not shy for her husband. The moment she was flat on her back, they parted, opening wide, displaying to Lucas the tight slit of her pink sex and offering to take inside her tiny cunt anything he desired, tongue or cock, saliva or seed. In their first weeks together, whenever Lucas had taken Daenerys to their bed and went to fuck her, as soon as she’d been on her back she’d be reaching between her legs and opening her slit cunt with her fingers, as though she’d thought her pink flower would be easier to pluck if it was blooming. Daenerys knew better now. Lucas didn’t want her fingers opening her slit when he entered her. He wanted his cock to have that honor alone. But for tonight, as was the norm, Lucas had decided he would give her his tongue first. Though his throbbing erection was _furiously_ demanding to be thrusted into the slit presented to it till it was spurting his seed, Lucas was no savage. He liked to taste his wife before he seeded her ... if only for as long as he could hold himself off.  
  
          Lucas crouched down once again, bringing his head level with their bed. With the opening of Daenerys’s legs, the puffy outer flesh of her cleft had opened somewhat with them, baring more of her pink, slim-lipped cunt to the air. She was well-bathed, but her moist flower still had a natural scent, and it soon greeted Lucas’s nose. It was a faint scent, somewhat musky, and it had his manhood swelling even stiffer and harder.  
  
          Lucas lowered his head and closed his mouth over Daenerys’s cunt in a deep, passionate kiss. He sighed through his nose at the familiar feeling of her silver-blonde cunt hairs tickling his smooth-shaven cheeks. Each kiss of her cunt started with a brush of his tongue and ended with a sucking smooch of his lips, tugging at her slim labia. Daenerys’s cunt was a mess of wetness, and in a few heartbeats her copious lust had layered Lucas’s tongue. Hers was a sharp flavor, salty, with a pleasant sourness. Lucas knew that taste so well that he could call memories of it to his tongue like one could call images to their mind’s eye. It was a taste not quite like anything else, and he could never resist it.  
  
          Daenerys used her arms to prop her upper half up a bit, so that she could watch her husband taste her; otherwise the swell of her pregnant belly would obscure her view. Lucas was glad that she did. He liked seeing the innocent delight on her face while he pleasured her. As he kissed and licked the pink slit of Daenerys’s wettest and warmest of flesh, her eyebrows arched upwards, aflame with striking pleasure. Her full lips pouted and slightly parted as she let out sweet moans, short and high in pitch, but not shrill. Lucas loved that sound even more than her girlish giggles.  
  
          Lucas pleasured Daenerys lazily at first, savoring the taste and feel of her hot flesh on his tongue, gently munching her cunt and noisily slurping her slit. When it came time to truly work her over, Lucas’s efforts were tactical. First came broad strokes like that of a brush, as he ensured that every inch and crevice of his wife’s sodden, pink flower felt the pleasure of being lapped and lashed by his tongue. Next were precise strikes like an arrow through an eyeslit, as he swirled his tongue around her stiff clitoris, encircling it with swift, intense pleasure, before then flicking across the button directly. When it was time to make the pleasure even more intense, Lucas closed his lips around Daenerys’s clitoris and sucked it taut as he battered it with his tongue. Soon after, he raised a hand and stroked her clitoral hood with his thumb, adding even more pleasure to her most sensitive of flesh.  
  
          It had only been a few minutes of tongue swirling and clitoris sucking when Daenerys cried out her climax. Her thighs locked around Lucas’s head, muffling her cries of pleasure as they warmed his ears. She leaned further forward and took two big fistfuls of Lucas’s wavy hair, holding him as though her life depended on it. Her orgasm was a fierce one. Her body rocked violently, and her chest heaved with breath. The swell of her pregnant belly went up and down with her clenching and releasing muscles.  
  
          Lucas had certainly sharpened his skills in pleasuring his wife, but he couldn’t take all the credit for how fast that climax came. The fact was that Daenerys was much quicker to finish while pregnant. That had been demonstrated back when she carried Jace in her womb. It was from all the blood in her loins, Lucas imagined. Yet another bounty of motherhood.  
  
          Even after Daenerys’s smooth thighs freed him from their locking vise, Lucas spent a few more moments between his wife’s legs. He continued pleasuring her cunt, but was far tenderer now, favoring gentle kisses and slow licks. He completely avoided her clitoris, for he knew the stiff little button to have grown far too sensitive. It would’ve been more pain than pleasure to stroke it now.  
  
          Only when the needy aches of his stiff cock overtook the joy of tasting her did Lucas give Daenerys’s cunt a final peck of a kiss. Daenerys fell onto the flat of her back with an oomph, utterly satisfied.  
  
          Lucas stood straight. He took up Daenerys’s legs in his hands and effortlessly tugged her whole body a few inches closer, so that her arse and crotch were at the bed’s very edge. His erect cock slid atop her puffy mound, tickled by her well-groomed, silver-blonde shorthairs. He was so close now. After giving a kiss to the smooth soles of each of her soft feet – there was nary an inch of his wife’s body that Lucas didn’t love, and her small, girlish feet were no different – he put them against his shoulders and took his cock in hand. After a bit of aiming, his crown was prodding against the tiny hole at the bottom of Daenerys’s pink slit, pleasurably moistening with her warm wetness. A bead of clear pre-seed oozed from him, adding more moisture. Lucas was to sate his lust at last.  
  
          And sate his lust he did. With a forward drive of his hips, Lucas’s thick cock pushed inside the little hole at the bottom of Daenerys’s pink slit. His swollen crown disappeared inside her first, the sensitive head submerging into a silky, squeezing sheath of immense heat, wetness, and tightness. Lucas groaned at the feel of it. Further and further his cock went, pushing more of his iron-hard flesh through her pink slit of pleasure, adding more of his length to be gracefully and warmly wrapped within her. He could feel every texture of her snug cunt as it sheathed and slid along his cock, first along his swollen head and then along the rest of his stiff shaft.  
  
          A few hammering heartbeats later, Lucas had somehow hilted every last inch of his large manhood inside that little hole. The crown of his cock was certainly kissing the entrance to her womb, same as the lips of her parted slit were kissing the base of it. At their joined groins, Daenerys’s soft, silver-blonde shorthairs messily met and mingled with Lucas’s grizzly, earthy-brown ones. With all his sex’s flesh wrapped within all his wife’s, Lucas shuddered and sighed as a familiar tingle of bliss wormed up his spine.  
  
          In their first days together, it had always been a fight for Lucas to have himself last longer than a couple minutes. It had been as much an effort of mind as of body to not swiftly pump his seed inside the tiny, tight cunt of his beautiful, nubile bride. He had since gained better control of himself. Now he could more easily choose what he wanted, whether that be a thrilling sprint or a savoring jog. Unless they were pressed for time, he almost always chose the latter.  
  
          Lucas squeezed Daenerys’s legs against his chest as he began _slowly_ moving his hips. He fucked her nice and smooth, easing his stiff cock in and out of her slit cunt at a sensual pace, a gentler shade of the ravaging that was to come. A hot pleasure churned in Lucas’s loins as his manhood was sheathed again and again, as that warm and wet flesh went back and forth along his length.  
  
          For a while Lucas gazed into Daenerys’s eyes, leering his fierce lust into that sweet violet innocence as his manhood filled her, but before long he was looking down, watching her flesh take his. Her cunt didn’t want to let his cock free; her outer flesh gripped, her inner lips grasped. With each slow thrust, Lucas pulled out far enough to see the beginnings of his swollen crown wrapped between the parted lips of her gaping slit, before easing it back inside. Already his manhood was fully slicked with her womanly wetness, glistening from root to crown. That was Daenerys’s claiming mark on his flesh, just as Lucas’s seed drooling from her slit would be his claiming mark on hers.  
  
          Eventually, Lucas’s lust abruptly demanded more. Like the sudden stoking of a brazier’s angry fire, he shifted to pumping away into Daenerys with deep, hungry thrusts. Still he slotted all the length of his thick cock into her grasping slit before pulling nigh all of it back out again, but now he did it at a racing pace. Now the sounds of their lovemaking filled the air. Lucas breathed gruff, guttural grunts, Daenerys breathed sweet, girlish moans, and _thwap-thwap-thwap_ went the slapping of his hips into her arse and raised thighs. Also to be heard were the faint, wet _shlicks_ of his slick cock thrusting through her sodden cunt, but that could be scarcely noticed over everything else. The symphony of lewd sounds only made Lucas’s lust burn hotter, the lust only made his cock swell harder, and that hardness only made Daenerys’s cunt squeeze him tighter.  
  
          The forceful fucking of Lucas’s pounding hips had Daenerys’s perky breasts bouncing and swaying on her chest. That proved a mesmerizing sight, and soon Lucas was leering at her small, bright pink nipples as they went up and down. Soon he reached over and grabbed one of her swaying tits. It was warm and fleshy, a joy to touch, and easy to squeeze. After a moment of groping, a particularly strong squeeze urged a squirt of hot milk out of Daenerys’s teat. Lucas brought his hand back and licked the milk from it, all as he continued fucking her, thrusting in and out of her snug cunt. His hips never missed a stroke as they clapped into her, _thwap-thwap-thwapping_ away.  
  
          Some time later, Lucas felt that telltale tightening and tensing within his loins and legs. The pleasure had grown too intense, too tingly. His senses coalesced to only what his manhood felt, to the hot flesh sheathing it and the woman’s wetness steeping it. Lucas was in the midst of a crazed lust now. His only thought was his primal need for release. He began slamming into Daenerys, pummeling her small body with all the might his hips could muster. His end drew nearer and nearer with each and every thrust. It was only a few dozen thrusts more that he was on the cusp of Daenerys’s tight cunt bringing his seed out of him. Lucas tried to announce that he was at his end, but all that came from his lips was a single, groaning: “Dany.”  
  
          What next left his lips was almost a growl. Lucas thrusted into Daenerys’s hilt one last time, letting her hot, wet cunt sheath every inch of his throbbing cock, its increasingly sensitive head most of all. His orgasm came on two fronts; one was a rush of molten pleasure flushing outwards from his loins; the other was the intensely blissful bolts of lightning on his cunt-wrapped crown. He felt the muscles within his groin contract again and again, and each contraction urged a thick rope of built-up seed to spurt from his cock. Lucas jammed his eyes shut. He seemed to ejaculate endlessly, pumping his wife’s tiny cunt full of his seed with one twitch of his cock after the other.  
  
          When Lucas had mustered his last spurt, it somehow felt even wetter inside Daenerys’s cunt. He opened his eyes and looked to their joined groins. He pulled out of her slowly, drawing back his sensitive cock one sensual inch at a time, till his crown slipped out of her cunt with a lewdly wet sound. His cock was glazed with a creamy sheen of man’s seed and woman’s wetness. Daenerys’s cunt, which had closed into a slit the moment he slipped out of her, was drooling. From the well-fucked hole at the bottom of her pink slit flowed a steady stream of Lucas’s cloudy-white seed. Such a pleasing sight, that. To Lucas, no other visual so succinctly signified a job well done. The river of white oozed slowly down the crack of Daenerys’s arse, glazing her arsehole.  
  
          Lucas’s body flushed with a pleasant chill. He staggered backwards and let out a long sigh, utterly satisfied.  
  
          Slick with sweat and suffering a thirst, Lucas went to his desk at the far side of their bedchamber and grabbed the tall cup of water from it. He raised it to his mouth and swallowed several big gulps. The water had been cool once, but was now lukewarm. It made no difference. To a thirsty maw, any water was bliss. Lucas’s body flushed with another pleasant chill as the water slithered down his gullet into his belly.  
  
          Meanwhile, at their bed, Daenerys still lay flat on her back, breathing heavily, recovering from the intensity of their love. After she’d given herself sufficient rest, she grabbed the square of fabric from the closest bedside table and wiped away her husband’s seed from her cunt and arsecrack. Once that was done, she shifted over to her side of the bed, lay on her back with a happy sigh, and pulled up their bed furs over her legs, to just below her crotch. No higher. She was warm enough as was, and furthermore, she knew Lucas liked to gaze upon and caress her nakedness after he fucked her.  
  
          Lucas went to Daenerys and gave her the cup of water. While she drank, Lucas took the same square of fabric she’d used and wiped clean his cock. It was thoroughly soiled after that. He tossed it into a wood-woven basket of other dirtied fabrics and clothes. Daenerys gave Lucas back the cup of water. There was a little left, he saw. He swallowed down the last of it and let out a sharp, satisfied sigh. After setting the cup back on his desk, he joined his wife in bed and sat on his bottom next to her.  
  
          Lucas reached for Daenerys’s crotch and began idly picking out the stray brown strands that had been shed onto her pale blonde shorthairs. After he picked off and flicked away the last one, he raked his fingers through her bush, lazily admiring the soft feel of it. Daenerys giggled, but Lucas scarcely heard her. His actions were absent-minded.  
  
          With his lust spent, Lucas’s mind had already begun wandering. He wondered if this would be the last night he lay with his wife. With the dangers of the morrow looming over them, that seemed all too possible. “I’m not sure you should join me on the morrow,” Lucas said.  
  
          Daenerys reached for his face and cupped his smooth-shaven cheek. “You were sure before,” she noted. When Lucas’s gaze rose to hers, he found a sweet sympathy in her violet eyes.  
  
          Lucas laid a hand of his own atop hers on his face. “I know. But as the day draws nearer ... well ... perhaps you needn’t be there. Just look at you, Dany. You’re heavy with child.”  
  
          Daenerys took her hand from his cheek and rested it atop her swollen belly. “I’ll be heavier yet.”  
  
          Lucas shrugged. “Doesn’t change that you’re heavy now.”  
  
          “I can sit a saddle, and that’s all I need do.”  
  
          “I have a suit of armor to wear. You don’t.”  
  
          “Dreamwing will keep me safe. And she’ll serve you better if I’m there with her. A dragon shouldn’t be denied her rider.”  
  
          Lucas could see the sense in that. A dragon without a rider couldn’t match the capabilities of a dragon with one. “And certainly not for something like this,” he agreed. And were things to somehow sour on the morrow, were the worst to come to worst ... their heir, Jace, would still live, and Ser Barristan would still remain to protect him for as long as he could. Perhaps Skyshark would survive and return, and then Jace could ride him when he came of age. “Aren’t you afraid?” Lucas asked.  
  
          _“Of course,”_ Daenerys said softly, her eyebrows arching upwards, her eyes still sweetly sympathetic. “More than you. But ... I know you have to do this. And I know we’ll win.”  
  
          Lucas nodded. “We are the blood of the dragon.” He knew it soothed Daenerys to remind her of that. Perhaps it could soothe him too.  
  
          “We are the blood of the dragon,” Daenerys repeated.  
  
          Lucas nodded again. “Alright. I’ll keep the plan as it was.” He stood and went to dress himself. “But I want you some steel to wear,” he said as he pulled up a pair of breeches. “We might have some spare mail lying about somewhere. Or perhaps a gambeson. We’ll have to cut it to have it fit you with your belly. It won’t be beautiful, but the morrow won’t be a day for elegance.”  
  
          “Where’re you going?” Daenerys asked, watching him from their bed.  
  
          “To Rhaegon,” Lucas said as a threw on a shirt over his chest. “I want to fly before bed.” The talk of their dragons had left Lucas longing to taste the skies. He strode over to the other side of their bed, to Daenerys, and gave her a loving kiss. “Don’t wait for me,” he said. “You need your sleep. You’re sleeping for two.” He gave her big belly a brief caress and then left her, starting for the door.  
  
          “I love you,” Daenerys said.  
  
          “I love you too,” Lucas replied with a glance and smile over his shoulder.  
  
          There was a sleepy silence in the house. Everyone had turned in for the night, and were either in bed or were about to be. A few all-but-burned candles gave some dim light throughout, but beyond that was a black darkness. Lucas walked with slow, deliberate steps, wary of tripping over something, and held a probing hand out in front of himself, wary of bumping into furniture.  
  
          Lucas made his way into Jace’s bedchamber, which was lit only by the moonlight shining through the sole window. He sat on the edge of his son’s bed. Jace was on his side, with his bed furs pulled over him. Lucas reached out and ran a few feather-light fingers through his messy shock of pale silver hair.  
  
          Lucas wondered how that silver hair would look with a crown atop it. _You’ll be king someday,_ he mused, as if he could somehow whisper his thoughts into his boy as he slept. _Whether the morrow or sixty years from now, you’ll be the one with boundless power, the one unleashing dragons and their fire. If you could comprehend that ... but it’s best you can’t. Be a boy first. There’ll be time to be a king later.  
_            
          It was _outside_ the house where Lucas nearly tripped. He stumbled but stayed on his feet when he happened upon Clare, who for reasons unknown was on her back on the grass. It was hard to make out her figure and face in only the moonlight, but Lucas could see that she was dressed in a plain nightgown. She was certainly alive; her chest gently rose and fell with breath. Yet when Lucas came to stand over her, her open eyes did not meet his. They remained gazing upwards, at the night sky and its endless scores of sparkling stars. Lucas looked up, to where Clare looked. Some of the stars formed figures that he knew. The Crone’s Lantern, the King’s Crown, and the Moonmaid were all plainly visible, gleaming white on a black field. But the full moon greatly outshone every star, big and round and bright.  
  
          “What’re you doing out here?” Lucas asked as he lowered his gaze to Clare.  
  
          She did not answer at first. A quiet stillness pervaded. The only sounds to be heard were the lapping waves of the nearby beach and the distant chirping of crickets ... till Clare finally spoke. “My son loved stargazing when he was a boy. Today would’ve been his nameday.”  
  
          Lucas swallowed uncomfortably. He was not sure what to say. “I’m sorry,” he settled for.  
  
          “I named him after my brother. Drandon and Drandon. My brother took to calling him Little Dran, even though he ended up an inch taller than him at fifteen.”  
  
          Lucas went down and sat cross-legged next to Clare. He took her nearest hand and clasped it between each of his own. Hers were well-worked hands, and they didn’t have the softness they once had. “I remember,” Lucas said. He had long known the names of Clare’s brother and son, and that Little Dran had ironically ended up the taller of the two. But it seemed to Lucas that Clare was more reminiscing than conversing.  
  
          Clare shook her head in the grass, looking suddenly ashamed. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It’s a mother’s curse to always prattle on about her children. I’m sure I’ve told you of them a hundred times.”  
  
          “It’s alright. It can’t be helped,” Lucas said warmly. “You’ve told me lots of things a hundred times. Comes with being with me for so long.”  
  
          Clare let out a soft chuckle. “Aye, that it does.”  
  
          Lucas had lived all his life with Clare at his side. She was more than a maidservant to him. His mother Maraya had perished when he was a toddler, and his memories of her were only vague and fleeting. From her death onwards, no woman was more like a mother to Lucas than Clare. Through all the rest of his boyhood it had been her that had taken care of him, bathed him, dressed him, washed his clothes, combed his hair. And when the day came that the Usurper’s War sent them in exile to Volantis, Clare was even more the mother to Lucas then than she’d been before. Like his father’s tutelage and firm steadiness, Clare’s affection and endless dependability had helped ensure Lucas became the man he was. He couldn’t imagine life without her, because he’d never _known_ life without her.  
  
          “Go on,” Lucas urged her. “Speak about them.”  
  
          “They ... they were so much alike, my Drandons,” Clare mused with a light smile and motherly sigh. “Looked alike, had the same eyes, same chins. They were both as good with a soldier’s sword as they were with a builder’s hammer. And they were both your father’s men, through and through. They would’ve done anything for him.”  
  
          Lucas nodded, remembering all this too. “Father said they were good men. The best a lord could ask for.”  
  
          “They were _so_ committed to him. When the rebellion started, they followed him to war. They fought alongside him at the Trident, and when that turned sour, they went with him back to King’s Landing. When I heard my Drandons survived the Trident, I thought the Mother had answered my prayers to keep them safe. But then when King Aerys commanded your father to take the queen and prince to sea, to safety, he told your father to leave half his men to bolster the goldcloaks. My Drandons volunteered to stay. They wanted to make your father proud, to return to him with tales of cutting down rebels when they victoriously defended the Capital from the Usurper.”  
  
          Lucas knew this tale, and he knew the tale’s end. But if Clare wanted to speak it again, if she wanted to breathe some fleeting life into those long lost, Lucas would not stop her.  
  
          “But it wasn’t the Usurper who came,” Clare went on, her smile fading till it was gone. “It was Lord Tywin Lannister and his golden army, vowing to defend the city,” she said, not with bitterness, as Lucas would have, but with only sadness. “When King Aerys opened the gates for them, when Lord Tywin’s men marched in ... I wonder if my Drandons even picked up their swords before they died.”  
  
          Lucas stiffened, his chest tightening. His hands clasped harder around Clare’s. “I’ll avenge them,” he vowed to her in a harsh rasp. “The Lannisters will _burn._ I swear it.”  
  
          Clare shut her eyes. “I don’t need vengeance. It won’t do me any good.” Then, without warning, she abruptly shot forward, sat up, and let out a horrible hacking cough. When it was over, she spit onto the grass.  
  
          Lucas had never heard her cough like that. “Are you alright?” he asked, alarmed.  
  
          Clare nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. It’s just a cough.”  
  
          “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” Lucas reached across her, offering to take her other hand.  
  
          “As you command.” Clare gave it.  
  
          It was difficult to get her onto her feet, and that unsettled Lucas. _She’s sleepy, that’s all,_ he thought.  
  
          “I just need to see you on your way home,” Clare said as Lucas walked her back inside. There was something strange about her tone, but Lucas couldn’t figure what. In the quarters she shared with Elayna, Lucas laid Clare down on her bed. “You’ve spent too much of your life on the wrong side of the narrow sea,” Clare lamented in a whisper as her soft, brown eyes looked up at Lucas from her bed. “I don’t want your little ones to suffer the same. They deserve castles and courts and cool autumns, not homesteads and foreigners and this endless heat.”  
  
          “It won’t be long now,” Lucas assured her.  
  
          Clare’s gazed flashed with something strange, but all Lucas saw was the tiredness in them. “No, it won’t,” she agreed.  
  
          Lucas lifted one of her hands and kissed the top of it. “Sleep well, my lady.” Clare was but a maidservant, no lady, but Lucas liked calling her that anyway. It seemed the proper way to refer to the one that’s mothered him for as long as he could remember.  
  
          Clare gave him a sweet smile. “And you, Your Grace.”  
  
          Outside, Lucas now made way for the broad, rooved building just beyond the stable. It was hastily constructed and somewhat ungainly, but it mattered not. ‘The den,’ they had all taken to calling it, because of who slept within. Lucas grabbed the oil lantern hanging from a post on the den’s outer wall and lit it. The den had no closeable door, only a gaping opening, fit for a massive beast to crawl in and out. Lucas walked inside.  
  
          Within was an utterly black darkness, devoid from moonlight, starlight, and candlelight. Lucas could only see as far as the warm glow of his lantern’s fire could reach. The darkness fled as Lucas went forward, walking at a slow, pensive pace. The grass that had once been the floor within had been largely raked away, cleaved down to dirt by massive, monstrous claws. Picked-clean bones came into view, most of which were larger than any bone of any man. Some patches of raked dirt were splotched with long-dried blood, from the occasional prey that was brought home still caught in the clutches of a colossal jaw.  
  
          Soon a vast mass of diamond scales came into view on Lucas’s left, milky and glittering in the lantern’s light. Lucas ignored her. Then on his right appeared sapphire scales, bluer than any sea. Lucas ignored him too. Then, in front of Lucas appeared the huge mass of ruby scales he had been searching for. It was noticeably larger than the others. Lucas went to it and pressed a hand against it. The heat that rolled from it was intense, even greater than that of his wife’s flesh.  
  
          “Rhaegon,” Lucas said.  
  
          The ruby scales then rustled, moving like a shifting, red ocean, till Rhaegon had uncurled. His massive head suddenly emerged from the darkness, his golden eyes glowing at Lucas in the lantern’s light. Flaring, spiky fins of golden flesh formed rails along his scarlet neck, and those that were once stubby nubs on his head as a whelp were now long and curving horns that looked to be made of pure bone. Even with his jaw closed, the dragon’s rows of tall teeth were on full display. When Rhaegon blinked at Lucas, many pairs of eyelids closed and opened, one hard and scaly and protective, but others fleshy and translucent and moist.  
  
          It seemed to Lucas that Rhaegon had grown even more in size in the past six months than he had in the eight months prior to them. If he stood on his legs and raised his long neck all the way, he was more than twice as tall as the den, or the stable, or the house. He was a true dragon now. Not a whelp, not a drake, a _dragon._ And he would only grow larger and larger till the day he died. _And the morrow won’t be that day,_ Lucas declared. _  
_  
          Any other man would’ve pissed himself then, were he standing before a dragon that could’ve snatched him up in his jaws, broken him in half between his teeth, and swallowed him in a few gulps. But Lucas felt no fear. Rhaegon was _his_ dragon. His steed. His friend. His bondmate. They were much alike, the king and his ruby dragon. They each were proud, protective, and capable of raging a great, righteous fury ... though Lucas could never claim his fury to be anywhere near as fiery and destructive as his dragon’s.  
  
          Lucas raised a hand and ran it across the smooth but hard scales of Rhaegon’s snout. There was a sleepiness in that molten gold of Rhaegon’s eyes, but Lucas knew his dragon well, and he knew that he was almost always willing to take to the skies, especially if Lucas would be joining him. “Sōvegon?” Lucas asked, as much a question as a command. It was High Valyrian for: _‘Fly?’_  
  
          Rhaegon’s golden eyes blinked again. Then, a moment later, Rhaegon’s head left the light. A loud rustling filled Lucas’s ears as he watched Rhaegon rise from his belly and untuck his wings. His huge head returned as he turned around. Lucas went to the exit. Rhaegon crawled along behind him.  
  
          Hanging on the inner wall of the den was one of three specialized saddles Lucas and the others had spent several weeks perfecting. Lucas took the closest saddle, departed the den with it, and hung the lantern back up on the post where he’d grabbed it. He began fastening the saddle around Rhaegon, throwing it over the dragon and clasping the straps. There was no bridle, nor any reins. A dragon was not a horse, and was not to be manhandled as such. As Lucas had read in an old tome, dragonriders used only the words of their tongues and the kicking of their legs to direct their dragons, and if the legends were to be believed, the best and most bonded riders could direct their dragons without either.  
  
          When the saddle was firmly fastened, Lucas climbed up Rhaegon, using the dragon’s scales and spikes for handles and leverage where he could. Once Lucas was atop him, he swung one leg over, set his feet in the stirrups, and fastened himself tight with the saddle’s harness.  
  
          Rhaegon twisted his head to look upon Lucas on his back. The dragon’s golden eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight. Gone was the sleepiness in them; they were alight with excitement. Lucas smiled at him and nodded forward. “Sōvegon!” he commanded, louder and more eagerly than he’d intended.  
  
          With a whip of his head Rhaegon faced forward again. After a crouch that lasted only a heartbeat, the dragon launched from the earth with a mighty oomph a thousand times stronger than any man could muster. From the force of it, Lucas almost feared that all his innards would come spilling out of his arse, but they stayed put, and soon his guts rose and righted themselves.  
  
          Moments later they were above the Summer Sea, around them an endless body of dark water glittering under the moonlight. The euphoric smell of the salty sea filled Lucas’s nose. The weighty beating of Rhaegon’s vast, golden wings was loud in his ears, even louder than the whipping air. The flight had his hair streaming behind his head.  
  
          Once Rhaegon had set himself on a steady pace, he stilled his wings to soar just above the water, with the tips of his wings skimming the surface. A moment later, the dragon beat his golden wings anew and took Lucas far, far above the water, a hundred feet above, then two hundred, then very swiftly three. Lucas could only laugh joyously. He had been laughing ever since they took the sky, he realized, and whooping and cheering.  
  
          Rhaegon spun and spiraled and sliced through the air. When the dragon suddenly began flying belly-up, Lucas felt the blood rush to his head. The upside-down position killed their speed and soon sent Rhaegon plummeting down to the ocean, but it was all the dragon’s plan, as he righted himself and beat his wings anew just in time to avoid crashing into the sea. They came so close to the surface of the water that Rhaegon was able to lash it with his tail as he spun upright, sprinkling Lucas with the resulting spray of water. “Show-off!” Lucas shouted over the sounds of sea and wind and wings. All the spinning had left Lucas a hint dizzy, but he cared not. The dizziness only made the flying more thrilling.  
  
          Lucas could’ve flown all night, but alas, he knew he needed his sleep. The morrow demanded he be rested. Thus it was no longer than an hour later that Lucas commanded Rhaegon to return them. At first the dragon did not seem keen on obeying, still soaring around above the sea, but some moments later he did concede to his rider’s command. He turned around and started them on their way home.  
  
          In the house back on the homestead, the candles in Lucas’s bedchamber had burned out. Daenerys was deep asleep beneath their bed furs. Lucas undressed and delicately slipped in beside her. He cozied up against her and took her into his arms. As he felt his wife’s softness and warmth, he swelled with unease. _This won’t be our last night,_ he told himself. _We are the blood of the dragon.  
_  
          The time of reckoning came at midday, when the sun was highest and brightest in the sky and the streets of Volantis were busy and congested. Lucas was much too high in the sky to discern anyone on the streets below, but he did not need see them up-close to know the city’s goings-on. Pale and wealthy nobles were visiting the markets, sheltered from the hot sun by slaves who held parasols over their heads. Nearby, coffles of slaves were moving like trains of cattle on the sides of the streets. Most slaves in the coffles were men, all bound by shackles at their feet and joined together by a long line of chains. Many coffles were doubtless being urged forward with cracking whips. Elsewhere, palanquins were being ferried through the streets. Some were being carried by armored and armed slaves, others by slaves wearing no more than loincloths, without even shoes to protect their blistered feet from the scalding hot stone of the streets.  
  
          The thought of the palanquins put a foul taste in Lucas’s mouth most of all. He had repeatedly used a palanquin himself, carried on the shoulders of enslaved guards that he’d rented. No matter how necessary it might have been, it was still a time that _he himself_ had used a slave’s services. But it was all coming to an end now. The wrongs were about to be righted.  
  
          _‘When the dragons dawn, our chains are broken.’_ For nigh six months Lucas and Colton had been spreading that whisper in Volantis, clad in tattered, hooded robes. On their fifth visit, to Lucas’s shock, they had found red priests preaching their words to gathered crowds of slaves. They weren’t whispering the words, they were _shouting_ them. The priests declared that the dragonfire would cleanse the city, and that riding on the biggest dragon’s back would be the prophesized hero _‘Azor Ahai.’ The city is ready for us,_ Lucas had then realized. _They won’t get their Azor Ahai,_ he had mused, _but they’ll get their dragonfire._  
  
          The heat was harsh enough to make Lucas sticky with sweat under his layers of steel and mail and linen, but might be that was made worse by being so much closer to the sun than those so far below him. Lucas looked first to his left, to the sapphire dragon Skyshark, who was beating his wings to hover in place, and then to his right, to the diamond she-dragon Dreamwing and her rider. Daenerys wore a silver gown, but only its skirt could be seen from beneath her makeshift armor. She wore the sawed-off upper half of a white gambeson around her chest and a thick sheet of riveted mail around her child-swollen belly. It was an odd-looking amalgam of mismatching items, unlike any queen’s gown Lucas had ever seen, but it would save her from an arrow, and that was all that mattered. On himself Lucas wore his full suit of armor, plate-and-mail of silvery steel, with some pieces of it fashioned like the scales of a dragon. Only his greathelm was not worn. Instead it was fastened to his waist, ready to be donned if needed. For this, Lucas prioritized unobscured vision and a full field of view over protecting a fast-moving target that was not much larger than either of Rhaegon’s eyes.  
  
          “Are you ready?” Lucas shouted.  
  
          “Yes,” Daenerys shouted back.  
  
          “Then let it begin.”  
  
          They kicked low at their dragons to send them downwards.  
  
          With a dip of their heads the three dragons dove, their stilled wings slicing through the air as they soared startlingly fast down to the city below. Rhaegon was the first to let out a booming roar. The excitable Skyshark and even the reserved Dreamwing followed his commanding lead, letting out roars of their own. Whipping air sent Lucas’s hair streaming behind his head. The yellow, almost golden stone of Volantis’s streets and walls fast approached as they all descended. Many pounding heartbeats later, Rhaegon was twisting upright and beating his wings to slow himself. With one last flap, the dragon planted his ruby claws atop a stout stone building no higher than forty feet from the city floor. As Lucas’s wits and senses returned to him in a rush, he saw Dreamwing and Skyshark grasping the buildings adjacent to his.  
  
          They were perched over the Golden Square, one of Volantis’s eldest and busiest marketplaces. They were near the west end of the Long Bridge, which stretched over the Rhoyne river and connected the city’s ancient eastern half with its more modern western half. Displayed by the numerous market stalls were jewels, silks, perfumes, and every other thinkable manner of extravagance. It was a rich man’s market, and thus it was swollen with both nobles and their accompanying slaves.  
  
          At the dragons’ sudden appearance, every living soul, enslaved and free, man and woman, old and young, stopped in place and turned their heads upwards to gaze upon the massive winged beasts looming large over them. A complete and utter silence fell over the marketplace. Lucas had never heard the city quieter. Fingers pointed up at them as a few mouths moved with whispers, but Lucas was too far to hear them. Some nobles were quick to wordlessly turn and flee, but most all else, enslaved and free alike, remained where they stood, made still by either awe or terror. It was hard to tell those two expressions apart, but it was much easier to tell apart the nobles from their slaves. Many of the nobles – _‘masters,’_ Lucas would now call them, as owning slaves could never be noble – had some amount of the blood of Old Valyria, as Volantis had originated as the first colony of the Valyrian Freehold. As such, many were either pale, had silver hair, or had violet eyes. But the years since the Doom were many, and thus very few masters had all of those traits. In contrast, the slaves were harshly sunbrowned, were mostly dark-haired, bore forced black tattoos upon their faces, and wore much more tattered attire, if they wore much attire at all. Most of them wore collars around their necks, and some were restricted with shackles and chains. They were not of Old Valyria. They were Dothraki, or Lhazarene, or of some other often subjugated people. Many were born to enslaved mothers, but many others knew freedom before they were chained. They knew how sweet a fruit it was.  
  
          “Slaves, do not fear us,” Lucas shouted, speaking to them in their Bastard Valyrian tongue. It was not his mother tongue, but he had spent the past several months sharpening it, and now he spoke it well and with confidence. “Today is Volantis’s Dawn of Dragons. Today your chains are broken. We have come to free you, but we cannot do it alone. You must rise, all of you. Know that you outnumber your masters five to one. Know that they keep you subdued only because they’ve broken your resolve. And know that you can reclaim it. Seize your spirits, seize your strength ...” Lucas’s expression darkened as he paused, “... and then _kill them._ Kill your masters. Kill them with your bare hands, and then kill them with their own steel. Kill them till they are all dead and broken beneath you.”  
  
          Lucas saw pairs of slaves look to one another. Others looked to the remaining masters, many of whom were now trying to push their way off the street. No slaves yet acted. Lucas had expected that.  
  
          “A fire needs a spark,” Lucas said under his breath in his mother tongue, more to himself than anyone else. He kicked his left leg against Rhaegon, urging him to look to that side. The dragon turned his piercing, golden gaze to four lavishly dressed masters on horseback stopped behind a nearby coffle of twelve chained slaves. All four masters clutched nine-tailed scourges in their hands, which moments earlier they had been whipping the slaves with, as Lucas could see from the bright-red marks on their bare backs. “Dracarys.”  
  
          Craning down his long neck, Rhaegon lowered his head, opened his maw, and unleashed a blazing gout of blood-red dragonfire from his throat. The screeching screams of men and horses alike pierced the air as the flames engulfed them. The slaves of the coffle scattered away from the dragonfire, but one of them then swiftly picked up a rock and took it to the skull of the nearest master.  
  
          The next slaves in the crowd to act were at first few and far between, but the courage to act was infectious, and it spread fast. Lucas flushed with thrill as he watched slaves slaying slavers. First he saw a slave shove a master into a wall and break the man’s head against the stone. Next he saw a slave wrap the chains binding his wrists around the slender throat of another master, strangling her. The Golden Square came raucously alive with screams, shouts, and the clashing and clinking of steel. Rhaegon roared, as though eager to add more noise. As before Lucas had never heard the city quieter, now he had never heard it louder.  
  
          In a corner of the marketplace stood a pair of fit and slender slaves bearing golden pointed caps on their heads and long spears in their hands, defending their obese and red-faced master. ‘Unsullied,’ those slaves were called. They were castrated men trained from youth in Astapor in Slaver’s Bay. Their minds were too far gone, it seemed. They defended their master from a growing swarm of unarmed slaves, but those with nothing proved to be as fearless as those with spears, and soon sheer flesh overwhelmed steel. The surviving slaves forced down the Unsullied, bashed their heads against the ground till their broken skulls were a messy pink pulp, and then took their fallen spears and poked a hundred bleeding holes into the big belly of the cowering master left helpless.  
  
          The burning of those horseback masters was more than the spark of the fire, Lucas knew. They were a lesson to the dragons on who to set ablaze: _burn the pale ones, the fat ones, those in silks, and spare the chained ones, the famished ones, those marked with ink._ If it could be helped, Lucas wanted not a single slave to die in dragonfire that day. But he knew that dragonfire was unwieldly. It was not an arrow to be loosed with utmost precision. It was as it was named, _fire,_ and fire could not always be controlled once it was unleashed. And nor could an uprising.  
  
          When a band of enslaved guards bearing crossbows appeared in a nearby gateway, Lucas had expected them to take aim at him and the dragons on their perches. Instead they took only one look at the dragons before aiming into the crowd and loosing a quarrel into it. Lucas saw several masters fall to the ground after the bolts struck them.  
  
          “One marketplace isn’t enough,” Lucas shouted to Daenerys as he looked to her across the way. “I want all of Volantis up in arms, now. Show the city that the Dawn of Dragons has come.”  
  
          Daenerys nodded.  
  
          “Sōvegon!” Lucas shouted as he kicked Rhaegon high on each side. Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark all launched, took the skies, and scattered. The city would be freed faster under the dragon’s divided efforts.  
  
          Rhaegon flew speedily across the city. The great beast was flush with the same thrill his rider was, roaring seemingly every breath. When he twisted his body to soar between a pair of tall towers, Lucas felt his stomach roll in his gut.  
  
          Wherever Lucas found clusters of masters, he shouted “Dracarys!” to unleash Rhaegon on them from above and bathe them in scarlet flames. They screamed from the bottom of their burning lungs and waved their arms about before they collapsed and died. Wherever dragonfire set flesh ablaze, other fires were also lit: the fires in the hearts of those hungry, in those tattooed, and in those chained.  
  
          Many times over Lucas saw swarms of slaves overrun their masters. Again and again slaves fell on swords and spears till flesh overwhelmed steel. The earliest masters to die had their limbs twisted till they broke or their heads stomped to bloody pulps, but the masters that followed were cut down by the fallen’s weapons that the slaves had taken into their own righteous hands. Some slaves picked up dropped whips and scourged those who once did the same to them. Some groups of sellswords fought to protect their employers, but all those sellswords either failed or outright abandoned their tasks. Those who did not simply flee from the first sight of dragons to seek coin in a safer city were swiftly slain by throngs of rebelling slaves, who were now armed.  
  
          Lucas had thought the prior night with his wife to have made him feel alive, but this, the wind, the fires, the roaring, the screaming, it was all like nothing else. His senses were _wild,_ like they’d never been before. It wasn’t quite a pleasant feeling, but it was an exhilarating one. _Is Dany feeling this too?_ Lucas wondered. _Is she scared? Am I? I can’t even tell.  
_  
          Chaos spread through the sprawling city like a raging fire through a thickly wooded forest, and as Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark flew about, the fire only spread faster. The dragons’ roars sent Volantis’s domesticated elephants fleeing through the streets, trumpeting out cries from their trunks, refusing to acknowledge their rider’s orders or attempts to calm them. Those the elephants trampled, slaves and masters alike, were all crushed to the same brutal, equalizing death beneath their storming feet. And the elephants were not the only creatures trampling others to death. Lucas saw many trampled by their fellow men, lost beneath the raging seas of stampeding crowds. Most of those trampled were slaves themselves, and Lucas grimaced at the sight of it. When he saw a boy no older than Jace fall and disappear beneath a crowd, he had to swallow an uncomfortable thickness in his throat. Lucas had thought he had fully prepared himself for it, but the sheer madness of the streets below was even wilder than he had imagined.  
  
          Lucas spotted Daenerys and Dreamwing many times in the distance, flying around and swooping down, but of Skyshark Lucas saw only a glance of before the sapphire dragon flew to the city’s vast harbor to unleash his fury there. _Small wonder that he goes to the sea,_ Lucas thought.  
  
          Countless fires now raged across Volantis, some with flames of blood-red, some pale white, some deep blue, and some of the traditional orangish yellow. More than once Lucas saw slaves throwing the bodies of their former masters into a blaze to burn. Anything constructed of straw or timber was now nothing more than food for pillars of black, billowing smoke. If Volantis were not mostly made of stone, it would be well on its way to burning to the ground.  
  
          Far below in a wide alley between two buildings, Lucas saw a master wearing a mail hauberk and wielding a fallen Unsullied’s spear. He was confronted by three rebelling slaves, but the reach of his spear kept them all at bay. Before Lucas gave a command, either by chance or by shared instinct Rhaegon saw the same his rider did. The dragon swooped down hard, prompting Lucas’s stomach to launch upwards in his chest. When Rhaegon was but a single moment from crashing into the ground, he snatched up the spear-wielding master in his jaws and soared back up into the sky with a series of swift but strong beats of his broad wings. The spear clattered harmlessly onto the floor, and one of the slaves was quick to take it into his hands and run off with it.  
  
          Rhaegon brought his maw up and down with the master clutched within. Lucas heard steel and bone splinter and crack. He saw streams of blood flow from between the dragon’s teeth, slanting down through the sky in thin ribbons of red. The mail hauberk made the master a poor meal, and when Rhaegon tired of chewing him, he simply let his mangled body unceremoniously fall from his maw. Lucas watched the body drop. When it hit the ground hundreds of feet below, it exploded like a rotten fruit, sending shards and splatterings of mail, bone, blood, and gore in all directions. A few nearby slaves were painted red by it.  
  
          The uprising was waged for hours. Many Volantenes fled, but many fought. Wherever the air rang with the song of steel, Lucas and Rhaegon descended from the sky to add a song of roar and a song of fire. Masters wearing silks had it turned to ash on their charred flesh. Those wearing steel had it melted around them.  
  
          When Lucas directed Rhaegon to fly over Volantis’s harbor, he saw that the chaos of the uprising had spilled there too. Skyshark was swooping up and down like a bird of prey, snatching up or setting ablaze master after master. Revolting slaves were swarming onto the docked ships, killing any onboard who did not also bear collars or tattoos. Of the ships that were cleared, to Lucas’s surprise, the slaves on board were not taking them to sea. Instead they seemed to be guarding them, and when they saw Lucas astride Rhaegon, they cheered at him.  
  
          Away from the harbor, Lucas felt strange as he looked upon Ivory Hill. It was utterly empty, with no persons, but also no blood. Those here had fled elsewhere or retreated into their homes at the first sign of disturbance, it seemed. Lucas’s manse looked exactly the same as he’d left it. He wondered who took up residence there after it was realized that he and his household had abandoned it. A part of him wanted to land and walk inside it again, to one more time look upon the place he’d slept in for many years ... but the manse was in the past now. It would forever be in the past.  
  
          The Black Walls of eastern Volantis were a labyrinth of manses and palaces where only the wealthiest masters with proven descent from Old Valyria could reside. There Lucas saw that the revolting slaves were standing no chance, even when reinforced with those armed from elsewhere in the city. They were massacred as they threw themselves at well-prepared Unsullied. It was there that dragonfire was most needed, Lucas realized. At their masters’ commands, the Unsullied had formed clear front lines to ward off the slaves, but that would be their undoing. It made them easy and open prey for a dragon.  
  
          In the green and flowery front yard of a manse twice as large as his former home, Lucas directed the roaring Rhaegon to land in the gardens near the chaos that swelled before the front doors. Blooming flowers were flattened beneath his ruby claws as he curled them into the soft dirt. At the sight and sound of the dragon, the nearby group of slaves scattered and made way. With them cleared, only a line of eight Unsullied remained, shoulder-to-shoulder, guarding the massive manse’s front doors with the bloodied points of their spears held out.  
  
          “Yield,” Lucas shouted in Bastard Valyrian from Rhaegon’s back as the dragon crept closer to them on his wings and claws. “Throw down your spears now, or be burned.”  
  
          The Unsullied did not yield, nor move an inch ... till one suddenly did. He broke rank, walked forward, threw down his spear, and then went onto his hands and knees before Rhaegon. Then a second did the same, and then a third, till only five remained at their post.  
  
          “Rise, you three,” Lucas commanded the Unsullied kneeling before him. “You fight for freedom now. Take your spears and kill every master in the city you can find. If you happen upon other Unsullied, try to win them to our cause. Tell them they’ll fight under the Dawn of Dragons or they’ll burn with their masters.”  
  
          “These ones will obey,” one of the three said in a voice so utterly without emotion that Lucas was not certain it was a man’s and not some creature’s.  
  
          Lucas returned his attention to the five steadfast Unsullied. His temper flared as he looked upon them, them that would reject the dawn, them that would throw away their own lives. “Yield!” he roared at them with a whip of his head, prompting a lock of his brown hair to fall and obscure his vision. “Yield, _now!”_ Still they did not move. Lucas shook his head, disgusted. He was done with them. “Dracarys!”  
  
          Rhaegon matched his rider’s rage. When his maw snapped open, the scarlet dragonfire he unleashed was a nigh unending inferno. The stream lasted for what felt like a full minute, till Rhaegon’s inner flesh could muster no more flames. When the stream of dragonfire subsided and Rhaegon shut his jaws, smoke was hissing out of his nostrils. In front of the dragon, where the unyielding Unsullied once stood, were now only five permanent shadows on the ground. The stone door behind them had been entirely melted.  
  
          The swarm of nearby slaves that had moved aside at Lucas’s and Rhaegon’s appearance now rushed forward. They jumped through the doorway over the molten stone with stolen steel in hand. After brushing back his fallen hair with a lobstered finger, Lucas urged Rhaegon back up into the skies.  
  
          Lucas soon saw that Daenerys and Dreamwing were within the Black Walls as well, doing much the same he just had, breaking lines of unyielding Unsullied with dragonfire. Once his wife and her she-dragon had stilled for a moment, Lucas kicked Rhaegon to go to them. “With me,” he shouted at her. He then directed Rhaegon up and to the east, to the massive and spacious palace atop its tall hill overlooking the city. It was Daughter’s Hall, the workplace of the Triarchs, named for Volantis’s proud title as _‘First Daughter of Valyria.’_  
  
          For the Triarchs to have attempted to escape the city in this mad chaos would’ve been a great gamble, Lucas knew. It was more likely that they would take shelter, and Lucas had chosen for his attack the day and time when the Triarchs were convening in Daughter’s Hall, so as to entrap them there.  
  
          It would’ve taken an hour walk on foot to ascend the long, spiraling staircase of marble steps up the hill, but a dragon’s wings made the ascension immediate. At the hill’s apex, the grand and sprawling Daughter’s Hall was as long as it was tall. Its main _‘doorway’_ was more a cavernous opening than any else. The gold-colored silks that hung from the top of the entrance archway were absurdly long, so long that only a few feet more of them and Rhaegon and Dreamwing would’ve brushed against them as they flew and landed inside. Within, Daughter’s Hall’s floor was marble and carpeted with black velvet trimmed with gold. The carpet had been immaculate at first, but Rhaegon and Dreamwing’s claws left it much less so.  
  
          Daughter’s Hall had countless hallways branching off from its main chamber. Lucas had feared he would need to scour them all to find the cowering Triarchs, but it seemed the Seven were smiling upon him that day. Directly before Lucas, just beyond the last of the carpet before the three marble thrones at the far end of the hall, stood the three he sought. They were encircled by a company of no fewer than sixty Unsullied. It seemed their reckoning had come for them just as they were preparing to make a push out of the city. _Ill-timed by them,_ Lucas thought smugly as a smirk curled along his lips.  
  
          Lucas drew his sword, the steel singing proudly as he pulled it from its scabbard. He kicked each of Rhaegon’s sides, urging the ruby dragon forward.  
  
          “Go!” one of the Triarchs cried out at their guards.  
  
          The Unsullied obeyed and charged with spears pointed, only for Lucas’s command of “Dracarys” to have scarlet dragonfire engulf them and put them down in flames. They died silently, giving not one scream. When the last Unsullied had been burnt, Lucas unfastened himself from Rhaegon’s saddle and dropped to the floor to approach the Triarchs on foot. He wanted to face them on his own feet. “Run and you die tired,” Lucas warned them. “Stand and parley with me, and might be you’ll survive the day.”  
  
          Each of the three Triarchs wore robes of shimmering silk and satin in colors of black and gold, but Lucas knew which man was which. The ones on Lucas’s left and right were polar opposites. On Lucas’s right, Doniphos Paenymion was obscenely obese, with greasy silver hair, an even greasier silver beard, and watery, violet eyes. On Lucas’s left, Nyessos Vhassar was tall, stick-thin, had no hair anywhere in sight, and had sunken, violet eyes that looked much too dry. They were both of the Elephants, one of Volantis’s two political parties. _Doniphos has an elephant’s size, but likely not its wits or strength,_ Lucas thought. _Nyessos seems to have none of it._  
  
          The Triarch between them, directly at Lucas’s front, was Haraph Ara. Haraph was of the Tigers, and he was perhaps indeed that manner of beast, with his lean, sinewy figure and his fierce, violet gaze. His silver hair and beard were all close-cropped save only for his mustachio, which fell past his face and came to points at each end. _Tiger or elephant, it makes no difference,_ Lucas thought, still smirking. _Both are prey to dragons._  
  
          “Mercy, mercy, mercy,” Doniphos and Nyessos began babbling, falling to their hands and knees as Lucas approached.  
  
          Haraph remained on his feet. He glared daggers at Lucas, his gaze despising and unyielding. “Who are you? Who burns my city?” he demanded, his voice smooth but dripping with disdain.  
  
          _He doesn’t remember me,_ Lucas realized. _Of course. I never sought him out, nor had my father. But perhaps he’ll remember me now._ “My name is Lucas of House Velaryon. The First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of Driftmark, and Master of the Tides. Astride the diamond dragon behind me is my wife, Daenerys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Lady of Driftmark, and Mother of Dragons.”  
  
          Haraph spat at Lucas’s feet and glared back and forth between him and Daenerys. “A Westerosi sod and his little Westerosi whore,” he renamed them. “Your titles mean nothing here.”  
  
          Lucas’s smirk still did not leave him, unfazed. “You’re impressively insolent for a man being stared down by a dragon,” he noted dryly.  
  
          “My family has had a hand in Volantis since its founding, when many dragons dotted the skies. I’ll not quiver in front of yours.”  
  
          “Perhaps your family has forgotten how deadly dragons are,” Daenerys said with a surprisingly mocking edge that greatly pleased Lucas, almost making him chuckle. Below Daenerys, her she-dragon Dreamwing was gazing at Haraph. Hers was not a gaze of simmering fury, as Rhaegon’s was, but rather of unimpressed calmness. Nothing shook that diamond dragon’s serenity, least of all _these_ three men.  
  
          “Perhaps they have,” Lucas said. “But I would’ve thought Haraph’s burnt Unsullied would’ve reminded him.”  
  
          Haraph’s face tensed. “I do not fear death.”  
  
          Lucas had his doubts of that, but he would let Haraph think as he wished. “And perhaps you needn’t receive it. I am not a man without mercy. Renounce your claim of governance over the Free City of Volantis and proclaim slavery forever dead within Volantis’s walls, and I will allow you to flee.” After a short pause, he added, “Though I give no promise on whether you’ll make it out of the city alive.”  
  
          “I renounce it!” cried Doniphos. “Slavery is dead!”  
  
          “As do I!” agreed Nyessos. “Hear, hear!”  
  
          Haraph shook his head. “Never,” he declared blackly. “I’d rather die than watch some mud-blooded Andal rule over the First Daughter of Valyria, dragons or no.”  
  
          “I’ve no intent to rule the city,” Lucas replied coolly. “And I’ve more dragon’s blood than you realize. But you’ve made your decision. You’d rather die.” Lucas sheathed his sword. “‘Sylute,’” he commanded. It was High Valyrian, of which Rhaegon heard: _‘Devour.’_  
  
          The hungry ruby dragon sprung forward and snatched up Haraph in his jaws. Haraph screamed, betraying himself. He was silenced when Rhaegon snapped down on him a row of monstrous teeth, breaking his back, ending him. Blood sprayed and bones snapped as Rhaegon worked him between his jaws and swallowed him chunk by chunk.  
  
          Doniphos and Nyessos watched with bulging eyes, horrified. When something began pattering on the floor beneath Doniphos, Lucas realized that he had pissed himself. “Go,” Lucas commanded them. “I’ve seen enough of you two. Ensure that I never lay eyes on either of you again.”  
  
          The two cravenly Triarchs promptly scrambled onto their feet and fled, making way for one of the offshooting hallways. _They have poor odds of escaping the city,_ Lucas suspected. _The slaves who have long suffered them will not be as merciful if they catch them._  
  
          When Lucas turned around, he saw that Daughter’s Hall cavernous entrance was now swollen with an uncountable crowd of slaves. _No, not slaves,_ Lucas reminded himself. _Freedmen. Freedwomen. Freedchildren._ Many of them held bloodied weapons, but none of them were held in a way that implied they were about to be used. Others wore bits and pieces of armor. Most had no weapons at all.  
  
          Lucas went to Dreamwing and her rider, his wife. Daenerys let herself free from the saddle and stepped down into his waiting arms. Lucas took her gingerly, mindful of the big swell of her pregnant belly, and set her down onto her feet. He then took one of her hands and walked with her to face the waiting crowd. Rhaegon and Dreamwing followed step for step on each side of their riders.  
  
          As Lucas and Daenerys approached them, more and more of the newly freed citizens of Volantis went down onto their hands and knees. It seemed that fifty more went down for every forward step taken. Eventually, Lucas and Daenerys were only ten paces before them, and by then, every last one was kneeling. A handful, about one of every hundred, seemed to be Unsullied, with their spears in hand, but notably without their spiked golden caps.  
  
          “Rise, all of you,” Lucas commanded in Bastard Valyrian.  
  
          They obeyed. Black tattoos marked all of their faces, Lucas saw, save only for the Unsullied. Each marked the duty their former masters had forced upon them; a cog’s figurehead upon one cheek meant they tended to ships; flies across both cheeks meant they collected horse and elephant dung; a single tear beneath an eye meant they were bed slaves. There were many other marks as well. Lucas wished he hadn’t lived in Volantis long enough to know what they all meant.  
  
          Most of the Volantenes’ eyes were wide, perhaps as wide as the two craven Triarchs’ eyes had been, but there was no fear in them. Instead there was only awe.  
  
          “My name is Lucas of House Velaryon. This here is my wife, Daenerys of House Targaryen. We are the rightful King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros,” Lucas explained. “The ruby dragon by my side is named Rhaegon. The diamond dragon by my wife is Dreamwing. The sapphire dragon you may have seen is Skyshark.” Lucas spoke his next words as clearly as was possible, so as to never be misconstrued. _“And we are not your rulers.”_ After he’d given them a moment to fully absorb that, Lucas went on. “I have not freed you to reign over you. The Free City of Volantis, the _truly_ Free City of Volantis, is yours. The gold in the coffers, the steel in the armories, the ships in the harbors, it’s yours, all of it. What you do now is your choice and yours alone. From this day forward, the Volantenes are a free people.”  
  
          Lucas wished he had known it was coming when the crowd broke so suddenly into roaring cheers. As close as he was to them, their cheering seemed a threat to make him permanently deaf. Lucas had never in his life been in the midst of such sheer noise. He held up his hands and called out “Quiet, quiet,” as courteously as was possible. To his shock, the crowd almost instantly obeyed.  
  
          Despite the day’s sweating heat, a chill ran down Lucas’s back. He had never felt what it was like to have such power over so many.  
  
          Lucas had to recompose himself after that, and to regather the rest of what he’d intended to say. “I recommend that you select elders amongst yourselves to govern you. The wiser the better. You could call them ‘councilors,’ if you’d like. But heed this: you can’t become complacent now. Slavers will return. Whether it be the Ghiscari from Slaver’s Bay or a Khal from the Great Grass Sea, someone _will_ put you all in chains again, if you allow them.”  
  
          “You have to find strength,” Daenerys spoke up at Lucas’s side, which he had not expected. “Find it wherever you can. In yourself, in your family.” The way she squeezed his hand and held her belly, Lucas could see exactly the places where his wife found _her_ strength.  
  
          “And heed this as well,” Lucas continued. “Volantis will not be the only city I free. I intend to liberate every Free City that enslaves its people. And after that, I intend to return myself to the land of my father, to the land of my wife’s father. If there are any men among you who would join me, who would take up arms in my name, who would follow me across Essos and beyond, I would welcome you. I will return the morrow after the morrow at midday. I want every man who would join me to be waiting in the harbor, with every seaworthy ship they would offer me.”  
  
          A man took a step forward from the crowd. “I will be there, Dragon King,” he vowed. Then another man stepped forward and said the same. Then another, and another, and another, till seemingly every man grown in the crowd had done so, and many boys on the cusp of manhood as well.  
  
          Lucas nodded, pleased. He could not hold back his smile. “Remember our words. Select wise elders. Organize yourselves. And find strength.” With that, he turned away from the crowd and gently helped Daenerys up into her saddle atop Dreamwing’s back. When she was safe and secure, he then climbed Rhaegon and saddled himself as well. “Make way!” he shouted at the crowd. “Make way!” The crowd shifted like water as they repeated his command. Rhaegon strode through the opening they made, his sister Dreamwing following behind. Volantenes reached out and touched their scales as they passed.  
  
          Once they were outside and only sky was above them, Rhaegon and Dreamwing launched at their rider’s commands. Cheers and cries heralded their departure. Skyshark joined them in the sky. It was evenfall by then, and the setting sun had left the skies bright gold in the west, cool blue in the east, and pale pink in between.  
  
          From above, Lucas was able to survey the aftermath throughout Volantis. Most of the shouting and screaming had quieted. Piles of corpses lined many of the streets, and Lucas’s smile corrupted into a frown as he attempted to count them all. His heart wrenched downwards. He estimated that no fewer than a hundred thousand had perished. A staggering number, more than a fifth of Volantis’s populace. At least fifty thousand of the slain were slaves. The rest were all masters, sellswords, Unsullied, and others. Most of the dead were men grown, but too many were women and boys and girls.  
  
          Lucas could scarcely believe all the death he saw below him. Hundreds of slaves had been slain before his eyes, but he would never have guessed so many would perish by the day’s end. _Fool,_ he cursed himself. _They fared well wherever the dragons were. They fared helplessly everywhere else.  
_  
          It was then that, for the first time, some doubt crept into Lucas’s mind as to whether all this was necessary. The words of his wife’s house were _‘Fire And Blood,’_ and they had certainly washed Volantis with both of that ... but there were _so many_ dead, more than Lucas had ever before seen ... and so many of the dead were slaves who fought at his calling, who would never have risked themselves had he not brought his _‘Dawn of Dragons.’_  
  
          _But how else would I have amassed an army without this liberation?_ Lucas asked himself. _And how would Volantis have ever been freed, if it hadn’t bled for it first?_ He could find no answers for these questions. _It had to be done._ Volantis could not have continued on as it was, not if Lucas was to have a clean conscience. He had enjoyed the fruits of a city that profited from slavery for years, and that meant he had to help change it. _Father would’ve done the same,_ Lucas thought with certainty.  
  
          “Let’s be off,” Lucas shouted when he’d seen enough of Volantis for the day. With that, he and Daenerys prompted the dragons to fly back west, to their homestead.  
  
          When Lucas returned to Volantis astride Rhaegon in midday of the morrow after the morrow, he was astonished to discover that there was nary any breathing room in Volantis’s harbor. Massive as the harbor was, it had still somehow become utterly swollen with waiting men. It seemed that damn near every living Volantene man grown was there, seventy thousand at least, all waiting to swear themselves to Lucas. With them were twenty-six seaworthy ships of varying size and two hundred saddled horses. _These men would have me leave Volantis with no one but women, children, and the elderly remaining,_ Lucas thought, shocked and amused and thrilled all in one. They must’ve been sweating their weight in water as they awaited him, because the day was significantly hotter than the day of the battle.  
  
          When Lucas landed, he met with the thirty-seven men and women that the Volantenes had chosen as the Councilors of Volantis. Six were women, and all but a few of the total were past the age of fifty. Lucas thought thirty-seven to be a strange number, but he was informed that no one who was put forward as a candidate was denied. In the sum of those thirty-seven councilors was the trust of every single living Volantene. Lucas thought that to be well done.  
  
          Of the exactly seventy-six thousand, three hundred and thirty-one men who came to swear to the one they had taken to calling ‘the Dragon King,’ Lucas took the vows of only about as many men as he could fit onto his fleet of twenty-one of Volantis’s twenty-six seaworthy ships, which he decided would be five thousand. That would make for packed ships, and any more would be folly. The men Lucas selected were the most robust and strong-looking of those who came. Among them were all five hundred of the surviving Unsullied, who had all come to the harbor. He took all of the two hundred horses to sea as well.  
  
          Of the seventy- _one_ thousand, three hundred and thirty-one men Lucas did not have kneel and swear to him, many were heartbroken, and some even wept before him. Lucas comforted them, saying that they should not mourn the thought of remaining with their wives and children. Those who were unwedded and weren’t fathers would not be soothed by that, Lucas knew, and so he had every unsworn man instead swear vows to serve their councilors and their reborn Free City of Volantis. That soothed most. Those who were still inconsolable would simply have to find solace elsewhere. _I’m not their ruler,_ Lucas repeated to himself.  
  
          “You are your own masters now,” Lucas told the gathered men in the harbor he had not taken into his service, after he’d remounted Rhaegon. “I will never be your king, but you can consider me your friend. Perhaps someday I will visit you all, but I make no promises. My true kingdom is far to the west, across the narrow sea. And before I reclaim that land, the other Free Cities will know the Dawn of Dragons. Know that I will free them as I’ve freed all of you.”  
  
          The next three months were spent doing just that.  
  
          Many in his Volantene army considered Lucas to be the prophesized champion of their faith, _‘Azor Ahai,’_ but Lucas asked that they not refer to him as such. Though he did not admit it to them, he did not care for their strange faith or their Lord of Light. Lucas had never been pious, but he was a man of the Faith of the Seven, as his father was before him. He commanded that his army use the other title they’d given him, ‘Dragon King.’ That or the traditional Westerosi courtesies, such as ‘Your Grace.’  
  
          One of the Volantenes who immediately distinguished themselves was Nakarro, a quiet and contemplative man of good height and strength, who said he was nine-and-thirty years of age. Nakarro was unquestioningly loyal to his new king, skilled with a sword, and proved himself invaluable in organizing and training the men Lucas took with him onto the sea.  
  
          Lucas’s five hundred Unsullied he packed all onto the same massive dromond. Though perhaps most other men would’ve trusted those unflinching eunuchs most of all, Lucas was of the opposite belief. He trusted most the men he could relate to, the men he could joke with, the men who still had their manhoods. The Unsullied were given names of pests and vermin by the masters who trained them, and were given new names every day, but Lucas decreed that they keep they name they had when he freed them, if only to save himself the headache. Lucas selected the one known as Black Scarab as his Unsullied lieutenant. Black Scarab spoke the most like a normal man of the whole lot, and it was he that best explained his brethren and their behavior, and how best to understand and direct them.  
  
          The most remarkable ship of Lucas’s fleet was a large but deceptively speedy carrack that had once been Haraph Ara’s favored. The Triarch had named it Haraph’s Harry. Some Volantenes suggested that Lucas rename it, but Lucas declined. It was fitting that Haraph’s beloved ship would now serve the man he had spat and cursed at. Lucas liked that thought.  
  
          Lucas made Haraph’s Harry his family’s home on the sea. Its former owner had furnished it lavishly, and it was a fitting enough abode for a king, a heavily pregnant queen, and a young prince. Jace had been abominably seasick at first, but he swiftly adjusted. _He has a great deal of seafarer blood,_ Lucas knew. Ser Barristan, Colton, Tobas, Clare, and Elayna joined him on Haraph’s Harry, as well as three hundred Volantene guards, Nakarro included. Clare’s cough was worsening still, but she was fighting it, and she spent not one day bedridden. The dragons would often appear in the skies overhead or skim the water beside Haraph’s Harry, but as they were too large to comfortably rest on any of the ships, they had to sleep elsewhere. Once, Lucas almost feared for them to have to sleep somewhere on their own, but then he remembered that it was _they_ who were the most dangerous creatures alive.  
  
          While at sea, Nakarro explained that they were limited in how they could train the men on ships, but nonetheless, he impressively had Lucas’s Volantenes smithed into decent shape by week’s end. All were fully armed and armored with steel from Volantis. They were all trained in spears and swords. Five hundred more were trained as archers. Another five hundred, who all were already familiar with riding horses, were trained as cavalry. _This is an army,_ Lucas thought to himself, satisfied and confident. _  
_  
          Lucas’s fleet was of several different manner of ships, some much faster than the others, some powered primarily by oars while others used mostly their sails, and that meant that as a whole the fleet was slow moving, sometimes as slow as an agonizing crawl. Yet soon enough they were upon Lucas’s next target: the isle of the Slave City of Lys. Lucas would no longer call any of the others the _‘Free Cities,’_ save only for Braavos, not till every chain and collar within those cities’ walls was struck off and shattered.  
  
          The Lyseni masters fancied themselves lovers and traders, not warriors. For liberation by dragon, Lys was a ripe fruit, and easy to pluck. Its tall walls meant nothing to dragons, and its tall gate would not keep out his army either. Lucas began the battle by burning open those gates, bathing them in three dragons’ fire till the heat made them explode into chunks and splinters. Once Lucas’s freedmen poured into the city and his dragons dawned over its skies, the chaos was short-lived. Lys’s many sellsword guards were quick to scatter under the holocaust of dragonfire. More than half of the subjugated Lyseni were bed slaves, women and girls, of little use in a fight, but Lucas’s men made up for that. After the liberation, at Colton’s urging, Lucas allowed a veritable army of former Lyseni bed slaves to willingly accompany his men on his newly-expanded fleet of ships. Camp followers were typical of Westerosi wars, and Lucas saw no reason to refuse such consensual activities. While Nakarro was bedridden, recovering from the grievous but unfatal wounds he suffered in Lys, Lucas knighted him and named him to his Kingsguard. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to make him some sort of commander, but Lucas wanted a man that trustworthy and reliable at his side, nowhere else.  
  
          The Slave City of Tyrosh was populated by bold slavers who chained those from all over the known world, and who had a sickening fascination for torture. They too guarded themselves with sellswords, and their walls were even taller than Lys’s, and yet they fared no better. Like in the liberation of Lys before them, Tyrosh’s sellswords swiftly scattered under the fearsome heat of dragonfire. As before, chaos spread alongside the fires. As a people known for their greed, many Tyroshi masters flung their countless glittering jewels at Lucas and Rhaegon upon coming face-to-face with them, as if that could buy back the cruel creatures their already forfeit lives. Their jewels did not silence Lucas’s commands of “Dracarys.” Their brightly and variously dyed hair smelled even more rotten than most when burnt. With his army of Volantenes and Lyseni swarming the city to arm and fight alongside the enslaved within, Tyrosh was liberated even faster than Lys had been.  
  
          By the time Lucas set his sights on the Slave City of Myr, it had prepared itself for his coming. They had numbered their walls with scores of sellsword-operated scorpions, ballistic machines that could fling massive steel-headed bolts at incredible speeds. They were meant to frighten Lucas off, as they were some of the only weapons that could kill a dragon. Three hundred years ago, one of Aegon the Conqueror’s two wives, Rhaenys, had been famously slain when her dragon Meraxes took a scorpion bolt in the eye in the skies above Dorne. But Lucas was unfazed, and it took little time to create a plan he was confident in. Many men in his army were talented smugglers and sneaks. At Lucas’s command, they crept into the city under the cover of night and formed a plot with the courageous slaves in the city to swarm and dismantle the numerous scorpions the moment the first roar of a dragon was heard. They succeeded.  
  
          Lucas’s army and fleet swelled with every liberation. Each Slave City was more prepared for him than the last, but so too was the size and strength of his forces greater. Never did Lucas fear that a battle would be lost, and never was one. He remained undefeated in his campaign.  
  
          Yet even as every liberation succeeded, Lucas was never joyous for long. With victory after victory, Clare grew sicker and sicker. Her decline was very slow but very sure. Lucas could no longer deny the presence of her illness. He commanded scores of medicine men to use their herbs and concoctions in attempts to cure her, but all failed. Her illness wasn’t infectious, which was some sliver of a silver lining, as that meant she needn’t have been locked away anywhere. Soon Lucas realized that all he could was make plans to get Clare to Oldtown as soon as possible after they’d landed in Westeros. It was there in Oldtown that the Citadel, the famed academy of maesters, had a library with a vaster sum of knowledge than anywhere else in the known world. If anyone could save Clare, it was the Citadel’s archmaesters.  
  
          Lucas’s liberations had swept across all of western Essos by the time he called his campaign to an end. Volantis, Lys, Tyrosh, Myr, Pentos, Lorath, Norvos, and Qohor had all fallen and been freed. While he had not expected to, Lucas never again encountered those chained Dothraki women and girls he had freed from the Meereeneese slavers. He hoped that they had already begun anew in Braavos, the one Free City that had been truly free since its founding.  
  
          When Lucas returned to Pentos to prepare to sail across the narrow sea, he condensed the army and fleet he would take to Westeros down to twenty thousand of his strongest and most loyal men and two hundred and fifty of his largest and best equipped ships. All the others he ordered home to their cities of origin with their tales and songs of all the glory they’d achieved. It was then that Lucas formally named his army ‘the Free Legion’ and chose for them the banner of three roaring dragons wearing broken chains side-by-side-by-side, milky white and scarlet red and deep blue, on a field of silver.  
  
          During Lucas’s preparations in Pentos, shipwrights of his Free Legion finished what they had begun after he first liberated it. Building over the framework of a ship that a former master had forced them to construct, they fashioned for Lucas a magnificent, king-worthy flagship, a great carrack of massive size. It bore vast sails emblazoned with the sigil he had requested: a thrice-headed dragon, silver on sea green. It was the likeness of Daenerys’s family’s sigil with the colors of his own, and it would become House Velaryon’s new coat of arms upon his return. Lucas named the flagship _‘Dragon’s Dawn.’_  
  
          _Dragon’s Dawn_ was like a castle on the sea. Lucas almost felt like a boy again as he marveled at it from within, much like how he had felt when he scampered through the Red Keep for the first time many years ago. _Dragon’s Dawn’s_ captain’s cabin – or king’s cabin, rather – was no smaller nor poorer furnished than the master bedchamber of Lucas’s old Volantis manse. Banners of a silver thrice-headed dragon on sea green hung proudly throughout the ship. Everywhere below deck was carpeted, and even the lower cabins were lavish and cozy. Jace had his own cabin, as befitting of the Crown-Prince. Colton had a cabin of his own as well, as befitting of the Hand of the King. On a lower deck, Ser Barristan had a somewhat smaller cabin to himself, which bordered the cabins of the other six Kingsguard knights, all of whom Lucas had knighted and had come to know well: Ser Nakarro, freedman of Volantis, Ser Lezero, freedman of Volantis, Ser Stallan, freedman of Volantis, Ser Joreus, freedman of Myr, Ser Aerar, freedman of Myr, and Ser Brachar, freedman of Tyrosh. Clare and Elayna shared a cabin. Tobas shared a cabin with Arenno, freedman of Lys, a legionnaire who was also an experienced medicine man, as talented in dealing death as he was in securing life. The remaining cabins housed the shared quarters of the other five hundred legionnaires on board.  
  
          It was not long at sea when Lucas’s family finally grew. The second day brought their second child as Daenerys gave birth. Clare managed to deliver this babe just as she’d delivered the first, despite how frail her illness had rendered her. The babe was a daughter, healthy and pink, with a wisp of her mother’s silver-blonde hair and a pair of her mother’s violet eyes. Daenerys labored for an hour longer with her than she had with Jace. Once it was finished, Lucas offered to name their girl after Daenerys’s mother, Rhaella, just as Lucas had named Jace after his own father Jacaerys. Daenerys declined. She said that, as she had been told, her mother suffered too cruel a life and died too bloody a death. She wanted their girl to have a name of her own. Thus they agreed to name her Aelyssa.  
  
          Lucas could not help but swell with pride, joy, and thrill as his vast fleet began its journey across the narrow sea towards Westeros. Everything was just too grand. He had an army, a fleet, a Kingsguard, his wife, his two healthy children. And soon he would take Clare to Oldtown, where the archmaesters would cure her. It was all going perfectly to plan ... till it suddenly wasn’t.  
  
          It was a night that gave no warning to what would unfold. The winds were good and favorable, the night sky was clear and cloudless, and with the brisk coolness, the miserable heat of Volantis seemed only a distant memory.  
  
          Lucas and Daenerys stood over Aelyssa’s crib, as Lucas held an oil lantern in hand. Below their gazes, Aly was sound asleep, thickly swaddled in soft, white silks. Though Aly displayed her blood of Old Valyria, her wisp of hair was not the pale, steely silver typical of Velaryons, but instead was the pale blonde typical of Targaryens. She took more after her mother’s blood than her father’s, Lucas could see. “She has your hair, you know,” he said, smiling from ear to ear.  
  
          “I know,” Daenerys said, smiling the same smile.  
  
          Lucas looked to his wife. “All for the better. I hope she grows to share all her mother’s beauty. It would be a great bounty.”  
  
          The sweetness of those words brought Daenerys’s lips to his. Lucas welcomed her kiss, but kept it chaste, and did not grope her as he normally would when they kissed alone the privacy of a bedchamber. It would only further stoke his lust, a lust that he was not going to sate. It was too soon after Aly’s birth, and Lucas was wise enough to give his wife’s flesh time to recover.  
  
          When their kiss came to a slow end, Lucas and Daenerys left their sleeping girl and went to their own bed. Lucas dimmed the lantern’s flame and hung it from a hook. He and Daenerys shed their clothes and were just about to crawl beneath the bedsheets when a rapping came to their door.  
  
          “What is it?” Lucas called out.  
  
          “Your Grace.” The voice was Ser Barristan’s, curiously. It was not his shift to guard the king’s cabin. But the old knight’s next words explained all, all and too much. “It’s Clare. You need to come see her.”  
  
          Lucas’s heart plummeted in his chest. There was only one reason why he would be summoned to see Clare. _It’s grown even worse,_ he realized. “I’m coming,” he hollered. He threw on breeches, trousers, and an unbuttoned shirt. His shirt was donned so hastily that Lucas promptly realized it had been put on backwards.  
  
          “Should I come?” Daenerys asked as Lucas tucked in his arms and rotated his shirt.  
  
          “I don’t know,” Lucas admitted. He was uncertain, for the first time in a long time. He turned to face Daenerys. “But I want you to.”  
  
          Daenerys spent a moment looking into his eyes. Doubtless she saw the uncertainty in them. She then nodded and went to dress herself.  
  
          Outside the cabin, Ser Nakarro and Ser Joreus were standing guard, fully clad in their steel suits of armor and flowing teal cloaks. “Stay here with Aelyssa,” Lucas commanded them.  
  
          Ser Barristan led Lucas and Daenerys down onto _Dragon’s Dawn’s_ third deck, where Clare’s and Elayna’s shared cabin was housed. Elayna was there, as was Tobas. They were both seated on stools. Tobas held his hands in his lap, silent, his face solemn. Elayna held her arms around herself like a child, sobbing hysterically, her eyes puffy and her face wet with tears. Her sobbing had left her face much more haggard than her middle age normally did. Arenno stood by Clare. He had a large purse filled with poultices, bandages, sutures, and other medicinal supplies atop another stool. He was a lean man with hair of dark curls. He wore a mustachio but no beard.  
  
          Clare was resting on her cot, lay on her back. Her flesh was pallidly pale, whiter than white. Her long hair of white roots and brown locks was slicked against her head with sweat, despite _Dragon’s Dawn’s_ coolness. She wore only a thin nightgown, and the breast of it was cut and pulled apart so that much of her sternum was exposed. Leeches were feeding on her chest, growing fat with blood, and Arenno shook his head somberly as he removed them.  
  
          Clare broke into an abominable series of coughs. Each one brought up bright-red blood onto the towel she grasped, which was already crusty and crimson.  
  
          Arenno turned and saw Lucas and Daenerys when he heard their footsteps approach. He came to Lucas and bowed. “Your Grace.”  
  
          “How is she?” Lucas asked.  
  
          Arenno’s words came in a frustrating whisper, as if Clare did not know how ill she was. “She fares badly, Your Grace. Her heart is quiet, and when she does not cough, her breathing is weak. The leeches do not aid her, nor any tonic. I have tried all I can, but the affliction responds to nothing. I fear that she will not survive the night. I suggest that she sip milk of the poppy to make her passing easier.”  
  
          “Milk of the poppy will only kill her faster,” Lucas said, not troubling with whispers. “She can fight this. She’s been fighting it for months.”  
  
          “I’ve fought a fair few sicknesses in my day, Your Grace,” Clare mused as she looked to Lucas, her soft, brown eyes finding his. Her voice was heartbreakingly feeble and scratchy ... and yet her tone was accepting and unmourning. “But this is one I won’t defeat.”  
  
          Lucas hurried over to Clare’s bedside. “You will,” he declared.  
  
          “I won’t. That medicine man will tell you same.”  
  
          Lucas looked frantically to Arenno. “You’ve truly no idea what it is?”  
  
          “I’m afraid not, Your Grace.”  
  
          “Her m—mother,” Elayna sobbed, gulping big breaths as she spoke.  
  
          Lucas looked to her. “What?”  
  
          “Her mother,” Elayna repeated. “Sh—she had the same.”  
  
          Lucas looked to Clare. “What is she talking about?”  
  
          “My mother died when she was nine-and-fifty,” Clare said plainly. “Was sick with a cough for a long time. Grew worse. Died to it, eventually.”  
  
          “Why didn’t you tell me?” Lucas demanded, growing furious.  
  
          “I didn’t want you worrying. There’s nothing to be done.”  
  
          “There’s always something to be done,” Lucas countered, quick as a whip.  
  
          “It could be an ailment unique to their family, Your Grace,” Arenno said. “An abnormality, or a defect, or a predisposition. But ... it could be impossible to know for certain.”  
  
          Lucas looked from Arenno to Clare. “I’m going to take you to Oldtown, to the Citadel. I’ll have the archmaesters help you.”  
  
          “I won’t make it,” Clare said calmly. That calmness only angered Lucas further. She should’ve been frustrated or anguished, _one_ of the two, at least. To be neither meant ... that she had already accepted her fate.  
  
          “Then I’ll fly you there tonight. I’ll strap you beside me on Rhaegon. I’ll threaten to burn down the whole bloody Citadel if they don’t take you in.” _If Rhaegon isn’t already asleep leagues away,_ Lucas thought but did not say.  
  
          “Maesters couldn’t save my mother. They won’t save me either.”  
  
          “You don’t know that!” Lucas roared, his fury blazing red-hot. He shook his head wildly, as much with disbelief as with refusal. “You can’t give up! _I command you not to give up!”_ He cared not for how foolish he might have sounded. He couldn’t think straight. Inside his head was a sudden storm of anguish and rage and sorrow and anger and madness and sadness. Lucas whipped his head towards Arenno. “Get over here and save her! _I command you!”_ If enough commands were given, surely everything would be resolved, and the day would be won. It had worked over the past three months, in Qohor and Norvos and Lorath and Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh and Lys and Volantis. It would work again here too. It _had_ to. It was all Lucas could think to do.  
  
          Arenno stayed where he was, frowning. “But how, Your Grace?”  
  
          “Think of something! A tonic, a poultice, more leeches, _something! Anything!”_ Elayna was still sobbing, and it was so hard for Lucas to hear over her, to hear even his own thoughts. He could not stop himself from storming over to her and shouting _“Be silent!”_  
  
          Elayna’s sobs quieted. Lucas felt even worse then, swelling with shame, but it was too late to take the shout back.  
  
          “There’s nothing to be done,” Clare repeated slowly.  
  
          Lucas turned to face Clare again. She was so pale, paler than she had any right to be. Her eyes looked so tired, more than they had ever been. And the wrinkles in her face appeared so much deeper set than ever before. Lucas’s mind’s eye flooded with memories of his father in his deathbed, as his final fever finished him. He had looked much like Clare did now. But this affliction wasn’t a fever. Whatever this was, it was much slower, and even deadlier.  
  
          As sudden as it had come, Lucas’s rage was gone. Now only helplessness flushed through him, heavy and cold. “You can’t die. We still need you,” he said, his voice much quieter than it had been a moment ago. _“I_ still need you.”  
  
          Clare smiled weakly and shook her head weaker. “No you don’t. You haven’t needed me for years. All I’ve done of late is stitch a few wounds and cook a few meals. I helped your wife birth those sweet babes, but she didn’t need me for that either. Gods know she conquers birthing beds better than Aegon did the Seven Kingdoms.” Clare let out a feeble laugh at that, but it then corrupted into one of her terrible coughs. When it finally subsided, she said “The Seven have done all they can, keeping me with you for this long. But you’re on your way home now. They know I’m not needed any longer.”  
  
          Lucas looked over his shoulder, to Daenerys, as though she could somehow offer some help. But the horror and sorrow he saw on her face was of none. She was holding a hand over her mouth, and her violet eyes were watering. _Is she seeing the dying Ser Willem Darry all over again, as I’m seeing my father?_ Lucas wondered. Ser Willem had been a father for her, just as Clare had been a mother for Lucas.  
  
          “You’ll be proper royalty before long,” Clare went on. “You’ll have scores of servants to tend to you.”  
  
          Lucas looked back to Clare. “You’re _not_ a servant,” he said fiercely, feeling a little spark of fury again. In the face of all the sorrow and grief, even that little spark felt good. He shook his head. “Not to me.”  
  
          Clare reached for Lucas’s nearest hand, grabbed it, and clasped each of hers around it. “I know,” she said. She gave him a loving gaze, sweet and motherly. She looked him up and down, as though admiring him and the man he’d come to be. “I’ve been more fortunate than many. The Seven had the good grace to give me another boy to take care of, after my first was taken from me. Your Grace, when—”  
  
          “—Stop calling me that. Not here, not now,” Lucas interrupted her. Clare had been with him before he was a king, and even before he was a lord. He wanted to hear her say his name again ... if only for one more night.  
  
          Clare nodded. “Lucas ... when your mother died, your father didn’t have to tell me to treat you like you were my own. I needed you as much as you needed me. _Gods_ have you been a gift. You were such a sweet boy, and now you’re such a strong man. Your parents would be _so_ proud of you, Lucas. Gods know I am.”  
  
          Lucas’s anguish flared, stabbing his chest. He went down onto his knees next to Clare’s cot, lowered his head atop their joined hands, and jammed his eyes shut. As his throat throbbed painfully, his tears flowed free, burning hot as they ran down his cheeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shed tears.  
  
          Though the wooden floor was horrid to his knees, Lucas scarcely felt it. Instead he felt only a wrenching, ripping feeling in his chest, as though something was being violently torn from it.  
  
          “Is there someone you would like us to speak to, when we’re in Westeros?” Daenerys asked softly, her voice quivering. “Any ... family?”  
  
          Lucas opened his eyes and looked to Clare. She turned her head slowly towards Daenerys, as though it took her great effort to do so, and then gave her a kind smile. “No, Your Grace,” she said. “There’s no one else.” After the last word left her, another series of coughs followed.  
  
          Elayna broke anew into hysterical sobs.  
  
          “Hush, Elayna,” Clare said sweetly. “You’ll be alright. You’ve still the king and queen, haven’t you?”  
  
          “Y—Yes,” Elayna stammered, sniffling.  
  
          “They’re dragonlords, remember? Living legends. Just like you said. You’ll still be able to serve them.”  
  
          Elayna quieted again, somewhat. Not much.  
  
          Clare looked to the ceiling. “If the Seven want me, they can have me. I’m happy. I’ve raised two sons. One of my own womb and one of another’s. I’ve seen my queen through two births, seen her babes healthy. There’s nothing more for me to do.”  
  
          _It’s over,_ Lucas realized. For the first time, his kingdom had lost a battle. It was the one battle he would’ve done anything to win ... and yet it was the one he lost. There was nothing to do now but accept it. “I’ll bury you in Westeros,” he told Clare. There was a calm in his voice, though his tears still flowed unbidden. “In Driftmark.”  
  
          Clare looked to Lucas again and nodded.  
  
          “Get her the milk of the poppy,” Lucas commanded.  
  
          Arenno moved quick after he spoke, fetching a tincture of the white liquid. He popped open the stopper and held it to Clare’s lips. She sipped it till it was empty.  
  
          “Dany, go check on the little ones,” Lucas said. “I want to stay with her.”  
  
          Daenerys sniffled. “Alright.” With that, she turned around and left.  
  
          “I want everyone else out as well. Leave me alone with her for a moment.”  
  
          Ser Barristan was the next one out the door. Arenno gathered his supplies before he left. Tobas brought Elayna to her feet and ushered her gently out of the cabin, holding her by her shoulders and whispering comforts to her.  
  
          Clare shut her eyes. Lucas feared he had seen those soft, sweet, motherly, brown eyes for the final time. “Mmm ... I’m feeling ... awfully tired,” Clare said. She sighed deeply. “I ... think ... I would like to sleep now.”  
  
          Lucas brought his other hand up, so that both of his and Clare’s were all clasped together. “I’m going to miss you.”  
  
          “I’ll miss you too.” Clare’s voice was barely a whisper. “My boy.”  
  
          Clare never again opened her eyes. She passed during the night, in her sleep. Lucas watched her draw her last breath. He didn’t leave her side till she was gone.  
  
          On the morrow’s morning, Lucas looked over the blue waters of the narrow sea from _Dragon’s Dawn’s_ forecastle. His arms rested over the balcony facing where his ship was sailing. In the skies high above him, Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark all roared as they flew in circles. On the mast lower than they but still high over his head, his sail was blooming with the wind, the silver thrice-headed dragon resilient on its steady sea green field. Somewhere behind him, Jace was dashing back and forth, waving about a wooden sword tightly wrapped with velvet to safely blunt it. Somewhere else behind him, Daenerys was looking on, watching their boy as she held Aly to her breast.  
  
          Lucas was paying none of them any mind.  
  
          Gone were his tears. The time for them had passed. There was enough grief within him to weep for weeks, but there was much to be done, and none of it could be done weeping. The isle of Driftmark would appear on the horizon in no more than three days. It was the third century after Aegon’s Conquering, and with it was coming Westeros’s third dynasty.


	5. Chapter 5

**LUCAS  
**  
          A terror took Lucas in the night.  
  
          _He was clad in his full suit of steel, plate-and-mail, greathelm and all. He stood in a castle, though he knew not which. Was it High Tide? Lucas couldn’t be sure. It was so hard to think. His vision was fuzzy and fleeting, and the hall he stood in was unnaturally dark. Torches on sconces dotted the walls, but where their flimsy flames ended, the blackness seemed much too black. And Lucas’s senses were allowed no time to gather.  
  
          Dragon roars boomed throughout, and each time one came, the castle shook. Though there was no dragon to be seen, the roars were thunderous, as though the maw was beside Lucas’s ear. Nothing could be heard over them. Unbalanced and nigh deafened, Lucas fell to his knees and clapped his hands over his ears as another roar pulsed through the halls.  
  
          An unknown desire drove Lucas to the door at the far end of the hall. He made his way there in a slow shamble, struggling to keep his balance with the castle shaking as it was. As he walked, he saw a large patch of stone on the wall behind a torch redden and warp till it sloughed away into molten magma. In the hole where the stone once was, Lucas was shocked to see Rhaegon, clinging to the side of the castle with his wings and claws. When Lucas met the ruby dragon’s golden gaze, the great beast launched from the castle and took to flight, soaring away into a night sky that was hauntingly black save only for the brightly shining moon. Lucas shambled forward again, till the wall behind another torch melted away. This time it was Dreamwing glaring at him. The diamond she-dragon flew away much the same as her brother. Then came a third hole, and behind it was Skyshark, who did no different. Yet roars continued to shake the castle.  
  
          When Lucas arrived at the door at the end of the hall, he touched his hand to the handle. He found it scalding hot, as though freshly forged in flames. But the desire drove him still, and the heat did not stop him from gripping the handle tight and pulling open the door.  
  
          Inside, the chamber was utterly empty and utterly dark. There was no furniture, no rugs, no banners. Only stone.  
  
          No, there was something, something in the darkness, at the far wall. As Lucas approached it, as his eyes adjusted, he saw that it was a tall, wide wardrobe. The roars suddenly stopped, and an eerie silence followed ... till Lucas heard something from the wardrobe. It sounded like whispers. His balance steadied, Lucas stood straight as he walked to it. Once he stood before it, he took hold of one of its doors, hesitated, and then threw it open.  
  
          Within was what looked to be a young girl in her mid-teens, crouched and cowering. She clutched a newborn babe against her bosom. She wore a hooded robe with her hair tucked within it, out of sight. Just when Lucas began to think that the girl would not move, her head whipped to look upon him. She was inexplicably pale, whiter than any white Lucas had ever seen, but her wide eyes were all black, like pools of ink.  
  
          “Husband ... please,” she whimpered.  
  
          Only then did Lucas realize he now gripped his father’s sword in his hand, the blade dripping with dark red blood. Not only was it in his hand, but it was above his head, raised and ready to kill.  
_  
          Lucas’s eyes snapped open. His face was wet with sweat and his chest was heaving with breath. His heart was racing, thumping away in his brow.  
  
          To his great relief, he lay in his bed in _Dragon Dawn’s_ king’s cabin, exactly where he’d fallen asleep, with the two layers of bed furs still snugly pulled over him. He was on his side. There was some moonlight shining through the cabin’s windows, made colorful by the stained glass. Daenerys was in Lucas’s arms, her back nuzzled against his chest. She was as warm as ever. Lucas touched two fingers to her neck to feel the beat of her heart. It was soft and slow, but steady.  
  
          _Aly,_ Lucas thought. He slipped out of bed, stood on his shaky legs, and went to Aelyssa’s crib as fast as could be managed without waking his wife and daughter both.  
  
          Within her crib, Aly too was sound asleep, swaddled cozily in multiple layers, much like her parents. Her flesh still had that pinkness of a newborn. A sewn cap was fitted snugly over her head, concealing her wisp of silver-blonde hair. Lucas reached for her and touched her cheek. He sighed with relief. Same as her mother, she too was warm, plenty warm. Warmer than most newborns would be, Lucas imagined, in thanks to her dragon blood. Neither she nor Daenerys were cold like grave, as Lucas had feared. It was only a dream, all of it.  
  
          But it was a dragon dream.  
  
          Given only to those with the blood of Old Valyria, dragon dreams showed the dreamer things to come ... or so Lucas had thought. But this was a dream that would never come. Of that, Lucas was certain. Why would he loose the dragons on his own castle? Why would he take his sword to his own wife and daughter?  
  
          Having calmed, Lucas returned to his bed, slipped back beneath the bed furs, and took Daenerys again in his arms. _Should I tell Dany?_ he wondered. _She’s of the dragon blood. She too has dragon dreams. But ... no. If I told her what I dreamt ... it might frighten her. And for what? There’s nothing to tell her. It will never come.  
_  
          When Lucas drifted back to sleep, he did not again dream.  
  
          With favorable winds and calm waters, a swift ship could sail from Pentos to Driftmark in three days. But Lucas found the winds less than favorable, and not every ship in his sprawling fleet was a swift one. Their journey across the narrow sea was going to take no less than a week.  
  
          The next day on Dragon’s Dawn was a chilly one. Lucas felt stiff. His fleet was nearing Blackwater Bay, and fate had decreed that his return to Westeros would come with the first winds of its newest winter. It wouldn’t be long before snow fell again across the crownlands. Lucas couldn’t imagine how frigid it had already become in the north. Nor did he care to.  
  
          A truly colossal carrack, Dragon’s Dawn was spacious within, with wide halls and roomy cabins. The sound of wood creaking as the ship lurched was faint but always present. Dragon’s Dawn was a pale ship, fashioned mostly from white oak. It reminded Lucas of High Tide, the seat of the Lord of Driftmark, the castle where he was born. High Tide was just as pale. It was built of travertine, the whitest limestone, almost creamy colored. Lucas found himself thinking of that castle more and more the closer his fleet came to it. But he couldn’t spend too long daydreaming. There was more to be done. _  
_  
          Lucas burst through the door to Colton’s cabin, uncaring of the sounds he had heard from within. Inside, Colton lay atop a young, blonde wench, blue-eyed and big-bosomed. He was thrusting into her, stabbing away between her legs. Baylee was the wench’s name, if Lucas recalled correctly. She was a short but shapely thing, sixteen years of age. She was Westerosi smallfolk by birth. She had been stolen away from Duskendale by the Tyroshi as a young girl and then sold to the Lyseni to be trained as a bed slave. Small wonder that Colton had her warming his bed. It had to be like a fable for the wench, to be rescued from slavery partly thanks to the efforts of the man who was the rightful lord of the home she’d been stolen from.  
  
          At Lucas’s sudden entrance, Colton rolled off Baylee and clutch his bedcovers to conceal himself. Baylee was granted no such decency. “Gods, Lucas, are you mad?” Colton cried out when he saw who the intruder was. “Don’t you know to bloody knock?” His long hair of black ringlets was bedraggled, and his chest was heaving up and down with vigorous breaths.  
  
          Lucas gathered up Baylee’s scattered clothes and went to Colton’s bed. He briefly looked over the naked girl as he approached. Her cheeks were spotted with fair freckles, and she had slightly crooked teeth. Her breasts appeared even heftier up close, and each sported huge, peach-colored nipples. Her crotch was shaved smoothly bare.  
  
          Lucas stuffed Baylee’s clothes into her arms, covering her breasts. “Dress yourself and leave us,” he commanded.  
  
          Baylee swiftly obeyed, giving a meek nod and an almost inaudible uttering of “Yes, Y’Grace.”  
  
          When she was gone, Lucas closed the cabin door behind her. He looked to Colton, who still lay in his bed, concealed by his bedcovers. “We need to talk.”  
  
          Colton groaned and rolled his eyes. “Why is it that we always ‘need to talk’ at the most _inopportune_ times.”  
  
          Lucas was unamused. He went to the glass pitcher of red wine on Colton’s desk, filled a nearby silver goblet with it, and drank the goblet empty with one long pour.  
  
          “Never seen you guzzle wine like that. Something wrong?”  
  
          Lucas scoffed sourly. “The woman that’s mothered me since I was a boy has died, and you ask if something is wrong.”  
  
          Colton’s expression shifted, saddening. “I didn’t mean to ... Lucas, if you need someone to talk to, I—”  
  
          “—I don’t,” Lucas cut him off. “Not about that. There’s nothing to be said. Clare’s dead. Nothing can change that.”  
  
          Colton sat up, keeping his bedcovers clutched to himself. “If you don’t give yourself time to mourn, you’ll feel worse. Believe me.”  
  
          “I have mourned her. And I’ll mourn her again in the days to come, when I’ve the chance.” Lucas had dealt with the death of a loved one once before, with his father and the fever that took him. He knew how to move onward, how to keep his eyes forward ... even if he wasn’t particularly good at it. Lucas filled his goblet again and gestured with it at Colton’s strewn-about clothes. “Dress yourself. I’ll look away, if you’re so shy.”  
  
          Lucas should’ve known Colton would take that ‘if you’re so shy’ comment as a challenge. Colton promptly threw off his bedcovers and went about the cabin dressing himself, not troubling to cover himself with even a single hand as he did. He looked even lankier in the nude. He was of almost the exact same height as Lucas – perhaps Colton was a single inch taller – but his frame was wirier, less muscled than Lucas’s. He didn’t spar or train as often Lucas, and nor did he push himself as hard when he did.  
  
          Once he was dressed, Colton approached Lucas, stopping a few paces away from him.  
  
          “I wish I could do as you are,” Lucas said. “Take comfort from a woman.”  
  
          Colton crossed his arms and screwed up his face, confused. “Why can’t you? You’ve a wife. Daenerys, remember? Daughter of the Mad King? The last living Targaryen? You’ve knocked her up twice, surely you know how it’s done. Have you forgotten where her cunt is?”  
  
          Lucas ignored Colton’s quips. He was in no mood for them. “A man isn’t to bed his wife when she’s fresh from giving birth. It’s not safe for them.”  
  
          “Read that in a book did you?” Colton asked mockingly. He did not share Lucas’s fondness for reading.  
  
          Lucas didn’t dignify that with a reply. But the truth was that he hadn’t read that. Clare had told him it.  
  
          Colton shrugged, moving on. “It needn’t be her cunt. She has a mouth. An arsehole too, I’d imagine. Don’t tell me you’ve gone this long without sampling either. You’d be amazed by how many places a cock fits so perfectly. If there are Gods, they were good when they made women.”  
  
          Lucas fell quiet for a moment, gazing off. “I don’t think I could,” he eventually said, shaking his head. “I can’t stop thinking about Clare.” Lucas looked to Colton. “It doesn’t seem real, when you lose someone so close.”  
  
          Colton gave him a long stare. “I know. When Tywin Lannister sent my father to the Wall, I wished for weeks that it was all a bad dream. That I’d wake up and see him when I broke fast.”  
  
          Lucas scoffed again. A bitter sneer wrenched his lips. He raised his goblet. “A toast then. To the Imp, for shooting Tywin dead and saving us the trouble. And to the Seven, for seeing the slaying of _‘King’_ Joffrey. May Tommen meet the same fate.”  
  
          Lucas had learned via ravenbound letter from Lord Varys months ago that Tywin Lannister had been murdered by his own malformed son, and months prior he’d learned that Joffrey had been poisoned at his own wedding. Yet somehow the Lannisters still sat the Iron Throne and still controlled much of Westeros. That frustrated Lucas to no end. _If I must be the one to set the realm right, then so be it,_ he thought icily.  
  
          “I’ll toast to that,” Colton said. He grabbed a goblet of his own, filled it with the wine pitcher, and then clinked his goblet to Lucas’s. With that, they drank.  
  
          Lucas set his goblet down. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned to Colton again and leered at him, his brow lowered, his gaze piercing. “But that won’t forgive the debt that little demon owes. My uncle Montaerys burned on the Blackwater Rush in the Imp’s wildfire. That debt _will_ be paid.”  
  
          Colton smirked his typical smirk. “The sods love to say they always pay their debts. Let’s prove them right.”  
  
          “Tywin dying won’t save them. None of them are innocent. The Kingslayer. The Imp. Cersei and her brood. They’re a rot. All of them.”  
  
          “And a rot is to be burned off.”  
  
          “That it is,” Lucas agreed. “That’s what I’ve come to speak with you about. I’ve decided that I don’t want our landing in Driftmark to be where Westeros sees the return of dragons. I’ve a better plan. Before our fleet is visible to Driftmark, I—”  
  
          “—Wait,” Colton stopped him. “Lucas, there’s something _I_ need to talk to _you_ about, believe it or not.”  
  
          Now it was Lucas who crossed his arms. “Be quick about it then,” he said, not unkindly.  
  
          Colton set down his goblet. There was a grave seriousness in his eyes. “Lucas, you’re my king _and_ my brother. You know the length of my loyalty. I’ve bled for you, and I’ll bleed for you again and again, till the day comes that I’ve bled too much. But it’s time now that I ask for something in return. A reward for my loyalty.”  
  
          “I made you Hand of the King. Is that not reward enough for you?”  
  
          Colton nodded. “Aye, I’m the Hand of the King ... and a Hand of the King deserves a worthy wife, does he not?”  
  
          Now Lucas grew curious. “Who?”  
  
          A smirk spread over Colton’s lips. “Margaery Tyrell.”  
  
          “Margaery Tyrell,” Lucas repeated, knitting his brow. He knew of this Margaery, but had never met her himself. She was born only one year before Lucas and his father had fled to Volantis. And she seemed an odd choice. With three brothers in line to inherit before her, the chances that her future son would rule Highgarden were slim to none. Lucas had thought that Colton would desire a wife whose sons would give his family more land through her name and rights.  
  
          “I’ve only seen her a few times, but that was all I needed,” Colton said. “She is a _beauty.”_  
  
          “Beauty or not, I hadn’t thought you the sort to seek sloppy seconds. Or sloppy _fourths.”_  
  
          Colton was quick to reply to that. “Aye, she’s been wedded thrice, but she’s not been _bedded_ thrice. It’s no secret anymore that Renly Baratheon fancied Margaery’s brother Loras more than her. He didn’t consummate. Joffrey died before the bedding ceremony. He didn’t consummate either. And Tommen is a boy of only nine. He can’t consummate till he comes of age.”  
  
          Those were all truths. Lucas hadn’t thought of them. Barring any lascivity, Margaery was still a maiden. “But wouldn’t you rather someone whose sons will inherit their family lands? Margaery has three living brothers.”  
  
          “Loras is Kingsguard. He can’t inherit. Garlan is a warrior. One battle gone sour will be the end of him. And Willas is a cripple. Might be his cock doesn’t even work.”  
  
          Lucas realized that Colton had put much thought into this. “As you wish. When I come into the Iron Throne, or when the Tyrells swear fealty to me, whichever happens sooner ... I’ll command that Margaery be betrothed to you.”  
  
          Colton beamed a bright smile. He clapped Lucas’s shoulders. “A thousand thanks, brother. Soon enough, we’ll both have wives worthy of us. But we need move swiftly, yeah? The goings-on of King’s Landing are true madness, as Lord Varys tells us.”  
  
          Lucas was fully aware of the events transpiring in King’s Landing; he read each letter from Lord Varys before sharing them. Cersei Lannister, who ruled as Queen-Regent in her young son’s stead, had revived the long-dead Faith Militant in an attempt to weaponize them against her political enemies. But some amount of justice was swift to come her way, as she had now learned that she had created something that was not beholden to her. The Faith Militant already arrested her for the poor-kept secret of her incestuous relationships, and began a trial. _  
_  
          Lucas did not smile with Colton, and he suspected Colton’s would be short-lived. “I’m not finished,” Lucas said. “I will give you Margaery Tyrell if, and _only if,_ you swear to give absolutely no objection to me taking my uncle Randyll Tarly into my service. He’s my blood, and he’s the best living commander in the realm. I want him on our side.”  
  
          Sure enough, Colton’s smile very swiftly soured and vanished from his face. He lowered his hands from Lucas’s shoulders. “He called for my head,” he said bitterly.  
  
          “And yet here you are, alive. You were not beheaded.”  
  
          “I would’ve been, if my little brother hadn’t freed me.”  
  
          “My uncle was serving his king.”  
  
          “A _false_ king,” Colton countered sharply.  
  
          “The only king he knew,” Lucas calmly countered back. “Colton, I’m not telling you that my uncle’s blameless. Only the opposite. I’m telling you that I will give him a chance to right his wrongs. If he rejects me, then you’ll get your revenge. But if he joins us, you’ll set it aside.”  
  
          Colton scoffed, biting back one of his typical chuckles as he ruefully shook his head. “You drive a hard bargain, Lucas. Margaery for Randyll. A reachwoman for a reachman.”  
  
          “This is no bargain,” Lucas said plainly and coldly. “I am your king. You will obey my commands regardless of your feelings. If you cannot obey, you will no longer be my hand, and you will not receive a wife _worthy_ of my hand.”  
  
          Colton looked away and waved his arm like a white flag. “Fine, fine. Do with your uncle as you please. Might be my son will be the sod’s liege lord one day. That’d be a sweet fruit.”  
  
          Lucas nodded, pleased. “Now that we’ve put that to rest, it’s time we speak of the morrow.”  
  
          That same day, Lucas stood on Dragon’s Dawn’s forecastle looking over the sea it sailed. Chilly winds whipped at him. As he stood there, it occurred to him just how fitting all this was. Few things were more natural than the Lord of House Velaryon leading a fleet of ships to war. Lucas’s family had been exerting its naval power over the narrow sea ever since they’d settled in Westeros. Lucas was only the most recent of a long and storied tradition.  
  
          Lucas looked up and gazed upon Dragon’s Dawn’s vast sea green flag as it bloomed broadly with the wind. The silver thrice-headed dragon emblazoned across it widened with every gust of wind, as though spreading its wings. Such a beautiful sight, that flag. Lucas had always loved his family’s colors of sea green and silver, but he had also always been partial to the Targaryen thrice-headed dragon. It was an easy decision to wed the two together, just as he and Daenerys had been. There was no greater union than that of their two houses. The Targaryen’s strength was long dead ... but their legacy was very much alive.  
  
          When Lucas awoke the next morning, the cabin’s windows were basking him and Daenerys in sunlight. Feeling his wife’s bare, warm flesh pressed to his, Lucas looked down. Daenerys lay on her side against him, though, in truth, she was just as _atop_ him as against. Her left arm was over his waist, her head rested atop his chest, and her long, silver-blonde hair was messily splayed out over him like a pale gold fan. One of Daenerys’s legs was entwined around one of Lucas’s; her cunt’s shorthairs were tickling his thigh. Their bed furs weren’t covering much of either of them. It seemed that they’d been mussed about while they slept. _  
_  
          Lucas lay there and watched Daenerys sleep. Her head rose and fell on his chest as it went up and down with his breath. Were Lucas to arise and dress himself, he could’ve easily made himself busy, as there was always something to do ... but he enjoyed moments like these.  
  
          After some time passed, Daenerys’s eyes opened partway, lidded and sleepy. When her head gingerly turned on his chest, her violet eyes promptly found Lucas’s. She smiled up at him. She moved the arm that was across him and raised it to caress his face with her soft hand. “Your face is scratchy,” she said, still smiling.  
  
          “I know. Last I was shaved was when we set sail. I’ll have Elayna shave me after we break fast.”  
  
          “Did your father always shave too?”  
  
          “Yes.” While they spoke, one of Lucas’s hands lazily roamed his wife’s body. As small as she was, it didn’t take long for his hand to travel the length of her back. When he absent-mindedly squeezed her soft arse, a thought occurred to him. “Why do you ask? Do you want me to grow whiskers?”  
  
          Daenerys shrugged. “I want whatever you want.”  
  
          Lucas poked his tongue against his inner cheek as he mulled it over. He hadn’t a clue what he’d look like with whiskers.  
  
          Some time later, Lucas rose, prompting Daenerys to lift her head from his chest and set it atop one of their pillows. Lucas swung his legs over the side of their bed, stretched all his limbs, and let out a long yawn. He idly raked his fingers against the underside of his jaw, filling the cabin with _scritch-scritch-scritch_ sounds. His was indeed a scratchy face.  
  
          Lucas heard the bed furs rustle. He twisted around and looked behind him. Daenerys was sitting up, her pale body uncovered, her smallish, perky breasts and soft stomach all bared. Their bed furs lay around her hips like an unrolled cocoon. The week at sea had left her silver-blonde cunt hairs somewhat unseemly, and the upper hairs of it were just visible above that cocoon. When Lucas’s gaze traveled upwards and found Daenerys’s, he was surprised to find sadness in it. Her violet eyes were somber and mournful, her full lips frowning. “What’s wrong?” he asked.  
  
          Daenerys hesitated, holding silent for a long moment. At last, just when Lucas thought she might say nothing, she said, “I miss the manse.”  
  
          That took Lucas aback. “What?” He knit his brow, confused. “Why?”  
  
          Daenerys gave a small shrug. “It was our home,” she said feebly. “It _felt_ like a home. The house by the beach did too.”  
  
          Lucas could scarcely believe what he was hearing. _Westeros_ was their home, the _Seven Kingdoms,_ the land of their _fathers,_ their _families._ Essos was no more than a temporary shelter, a stopgap. And it was a poor one at that, rife with slavers and savages. Daenerys hadn’t lived a day in Westeros, but Lucas had. It was where he was born, and it was where he intended to die. “Those places were _never_ our home,” Lucas declared darkly.  
  
          “They felt like it,” Daenerys said again. Then she took a moment to gather her words. “I ... I miss every day being a peaceful one. The peaceful days ... the peaceful weeks ... the peaceful months. There were no battles ... no burning cities ... no legionnaires, no Unsullied ... no worries ... no war.”  
  
          _The real war hasn’t even begun,_ Lucas thought.  
  
          “We were just ... a family,” Daenerys went on. “We were safe.”  
  
          “We _weren’t_ safe, Dany, not truly. It only seemed that way.” Lucas found his voice raising. “We were in a nest of snakes. Have you forgotten the slave Haraph Ara sent to spy on us? Haraph would’ve discovered the dragons, and when he did, he would’ve had men storm the manse. If we’d tried stopping them from stealing the whelps, they would’ve killed me, and they would’ve raped you. And we were lucky to only be found by those Ghiscari on the homestead. If a Dothraki horde had found us, even the dragons couldn’t have saved us, not as young as they were. And the Dothraki would’ve done worse to us than Haraph.”  
  
          Only more sadness filled Daenerys’s eyes.  
  
          Lucas let out a long sigh, his frustration leaving through his lungs. It was easy to discard anger when he looked upon those eyes. “I’m sorry, Dany, but we had to do this,” he said, much softer now. “It wasn’t a choice. And High Tide will be like the manse was, but even better. It’ll be our home. And we’ll be truly safe there.”  
  
          “What if they don’t welcome you back? You’ve been gone for sixteen years.”  
  
          That much was true. Lucas was but a boy of ten years when he fled Driftmark with his father. Now he was a man of six-and-twenty. Yet he was a Velaryon still, and always would be. And by rights, he was lord of their house. His family would not challenge him, they would _welcome_ him. Lucas was confident in that. “I lived the first decade of my life there, Dany. I wasn’t a visitor. I was family. They’re my blood. My kin. That means something to my house. Perhaps not to all ... but it does to us. You’ll just have to trust me.”  
  
          Daenerys gulped, then nodded. “I trust you.”  
  
          Lucas shifted closer to her. “Believe me, Dany, I wish none of it had happened like this. I grew up wanting to be Lord of Driftmark, not Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. I wish your brother Rhaegar was king. I wish you and I were wedded at the Red Keep, before all our family, like my father wanted. A _proper_ wedding, with a great feast and singing and dancing. More than vows and cloaks in a dingy little chamber. I wish I could’ve taken you home to High Tide right after, that we could’ve started our family there, that we’d never known these wars. But none of that will ever be. Everything’s gone wrong ... and now I have to do all I can to make things right. And I can’t do it alone.”  
  
          Daenerys suddenly came forward and took Lucas into her skinny arms, embracing him, her head nocked over his shoulder and her breasts pressed against his chest. “I’m with you,” she said. “And I’m glad we’re together. Proper wedding or not.”  
  
          Lucas chuckled under his breath. He wrapped his own arms around Daenerys and held her tight. With his nose against the smooth, pale blonde tresses of her long hair, he drew a deep breath, in and out. “I’m glad too.”  
  
          Lucas let down his arms. When Daenerys took her head from his shoulder, she leaned up and took him into a deep kiss. As they locked lips, Lucas’s hands instinctively went to her bare hips, gently squeezing them. They remained there when Daenerys broke their kiss and pulled away, creating an audible smack as their lips parted. “I love you,” Daenerys said. Her big, violet eyes glittered as they looked upon Lucas’s.  
  
          “I love you too.”  
  
          Daenerys looked down, upon Lucas’s hands at her hips. Then her eyes went to his crotch, where they found his half-erection. “Do you want to?” she asked softly as she looked back up at him.  
  
          Lucas shook his head. “It’s too soon.”  
  
          “It’s been six days,” Daenerys said. Meaning, since Aly was born.  
  
          “Clare told us to wait a week at the least.”  
  
          “For the normal way,” Daenerys reminded him. “I could ... do it the other way for you,” she offered. “With my mouth,” she clarified, needlessly. Though it seemed she intended to offer the service slyly, she instead spoke it bashfully. Lucas chuckled again. Daenerys was only two years removed from being a maiden, after all. She still sounded awkward when speaking of lewd things.  
  
          “Another time,” Lucas said.  
  
          Daenerys tilted her head, looking concerned. “Are you sure?”  
  
          Lucas nodded. “I’m sure.”  
  
          It wasn’t that Lucas didn’t want her. He _always_ wanted his wife. But there was so much on his mind, so much weight on his shoulders. Clare, that dragon dream, their arrival in Westeros ... the upcoming day would be _critical._  
  
          Aly began burbling in her crib. “I’ll get her,” Daenerys said. She gave Lucas another kiss and then scooted off their bed. Her bare feet pattered against the wooden floor. Lucas gazed wistfully upon her nakedness as she went to their youngest’s crib.  
  
          _We’ll christen our new bed,_ Lucas told himself, _when we’re home.  
_  
          A few hours later, after they broke fast, Lucas and Daenerys returned to their cabin with the little ones, Jace and Aly both. Elayna accompanied them, with a shaving razor and vial of depilatory cream in hand. Lucas wore nigh all black that day: black doublet, black trousers, and black boots. The one other color was of the teal sash he wore, which seemed starkly bright in comparison. Clare had once told Lucas that black favored him, that with his height and strength it gave him a lordly and imposing look. Daenerys wore a lavish gown of rich purple and pale gold with a laced bodice. Elayna wore a simple gown of brown and beige. Jace _had_ been wearing a shirt that matched his manila trousers, but he had at some point discarded his shirt and continued his play without it. Aly wore only a diaper sewn of white silk.  
  
          Jace ran around the cabin at play, swinging about his wooden, velvet-wrapped play sword. While Lucas grabbed two chairs and set them before the cabin’s tall mirror, Elayna sat with Daenerys on their bed’s edge and aided her in unlacing her bodice, so that Aly could be fed her meal of mother’s milk. Once one of Daenerys’s breasts were free and Aly was latched and feeding, Elayna came to Lucas. While she gathered the razor and the vial of cream, Lucas pulled his shirt off over his head and threw it across the cabin, onto the bed.  
  
          Elayna sat beside Lucas and opened the vial, pulling out the stopper with an audible _pop._ “Hold still, Your Grace,” she said awkwardly. “Don’t want to nick you.” It was the same thing Elayna said every single time Lucas had her shave him, as though he needed to be told it again and again. But Lucas would not scold her for that. It was who Elayna was. Lucas’s father had long ago explained to him that she was ‘different’ than most. She was by turns simple, childish, excitable, and repetitive ... but she had a good heart, and she was loyal. That had been enough for Lucas’s father, and it was enough for Lucas too.  
  
          Lucas gazed upon himself in the mirror as Elayna scraped the razor through the cream. It was in those moments with a mirror that Lucas always remembered just how much he looked like his father. He had none of his father’s colors, not the paleness of his skin nor the silver of his hair nor the purple of his eyes, but he had all his visage. He had his same brow, his same nose, his same jaw, his same chin. That fever killed his father years ago, but Lucas would never forget the man’s face. How could he? He saw it every time he looked into a mirror.  
  
          The thoughts of Lucas’s father came one after the other, till in his mind’s eye he was seeing again one of the talks he had with him so long ago. It was one of Lucas’s earliest memories.  
  
_They were in King’s Landing, as they often were. As King Aerys’s master of ships, Lucas’s father Jacaerys spent half his time there and half his time at home in Driftmark. Lucas often accompanied his father when he went to King’s Landing, as did Colton, his closest friend. But on that month, there were many lords and their sons present in the capital, residing in the scores of tents and pavilions that had been erected all around the Red Keep. The Kingswood Brotherhood, a band of outlaws that had terrorized the crownlands for far too long, was finally vulnerable, and lords and squires were scrambling to prove themselves by assisting in wiping them out.  
  
          In the Red Keep, in the office of the master of ships, Lucas had just drawn his hand back from his shirtless father’s face, who had permitted him to feel how smooth the shave was. His father was a tall man, long and lean. His was a handsome face, as Lucas had heard from so many ladies who spoke to him. It was narrow but chiseled, with a defined jaw and strong nose. His pair of clear, purple eyes were sharp and piercing. His long, steely-silver hair was neatly parted from his left and fell to his shoulders. It was naturally straight, and well-brushed. Lucas had thought it funny how his father kept his hair quite long but his face bare. Lucas never saw his father with whiskers, not with beard nor with mustachio.  
  
          “Always shave before a battle, Lucas,” Jacaerys said as he then felt the smoothness of the shave himself. He looked to the near mirror to appraise the look of it as the old maidservant that had shaved him gathered her things and departed.  
  
          “What for?” Lucas asked with a tilt of his head, curious.  
  
          “Most smallfolk don’t shave. They may trim, but they don’t go smooth. Razors aren’t free, nor are the creams. Therefore, a smooth-shaven man is most often a knight or a lord.”  
  
          Lucas still did not understand. “So?”  
  
          “So, in a battle, if you’re captured, they’ll be more like to ransom you than outright kill you,” Jacaerys explained.  
  
          “Oh.”  
  
          Jacaerys turned and faced Lucas again. He lowered his head, so that his piercing, purple eyes were level with his son’s, and put a hand to his shoulder. “If you’re to fall in battle, it’s better to live than to die. Let no one tell you otherwise. There is no honor in death.”  
  
          A boyish ache of fear strummed Lucas’s heart. “Then why are you going?” he asked. “You might die.”  
  
          Jacaerys gave a little sigh. “Because it’s expected of me, and it’s my duty. King Aerys wants every capable sword for this final thrust. And the Lord of Driftmark has never shirked his duties. But worry not. I’ll be riding with the likes of Sers Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy. I’ve no intention to die today. I’ll be around for many years yet.”_  
  
          “All done,” Elayna announced as she wiped Lucas’s face and neck with a damp washcloth.  
  
          Lucas touched a hand to his face. It was a smooth shave, and devoid of any nicks. “Good,” he said in approval.  
  
          Then came a rapping on the cabin door. “It’s Nakarro, Your Grace,” called out the knight himself in his deep but soft voice, speaking in Westeros’s Common Tongue. He was the lone Essos-born knight of Lucas’s Kingsguard who could fluently speak that tongue.  
  
          “You may enter,” Lucas hollered. While the door opened, Lucas looked to Elayna. “Bring me a fresh shirt,” he commanded.  
  
          “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied with nod that was much sharper than it needed be.  
  
          With his hand calmly resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword, Ser Nakarro of Volantis ducked his head under the doorway and entered. He was the second tallest of the Kingsguard at six-foot-six, noticeably taller than his king and staggeringly taller than his queen. In contrast to his immense stature, he was always soft-spoken, and in contrast to his skill in it, he held no love for battle. Visually, Lucas was quite certain that Ser Nakarro was what many Westerosi girls imagined when they fantasized of exotic Essos men. The knight’s complexion was caramel, not pale but not brown. His eyes were a warm hazel, and his dark brown hair fell to his shoulders in effortlessly smooth waves. Even with the black tiger stripes tattooed across his face, that which signified his former duty as a slave soldier, Ser Nakarro was handsome by every measure. But the knight never used his allure. Unlike his other Essos-born Kingsguard brethren, never had Ser Nakarro needed to be taken from a camp follower when Lucas summoned him. Nor did he ever drink. He was beholden to no lusts or vices. _‘Boring,’_ many legionnaires called him when they teased him. Once, months ago, Lucas had asked Ser Nakarro what he most took pleasure in. His answer, _‘Justice,’_ made him an easy choice for the second knight of Lucas’s Kingsguard.  
  
          “You wanted to speak with me, my king?” Ser Nakarro asked, stopped just past the door.  
  
          Before Lucas could reply, his son spotted the knight. Jace charged Ser Nakarro and unleashed unto him a series of furious blows from his play sword. Each harmlessly bounced off the steel of Ser Nakarro’s plate greaves, but one couldn’t tell that from how determined Jace was to pretend-slay him.  
  
          Ser Nakarro smiled and chuckled. “Easy there, little prince. I am friend, not foe.”  
  
          Jace cared not for the knight’s words. He whapped away, thumping Ser Nakarro with as much might as he could muster, which wasn’t much. Months ago, shortly before Lucas and Daenerys descended upon Volantis, Jace had begun taking a stick and using it like a sword, clumsily swinging it around. Doubtless it was from seeing Lucas sparring so often with Ser Barristan. Like father, like son. Lucas had then fashioned a makeshift wooden sword for Jace, complete with a crossguard. But even a wooden sword could hurt someone, or hurt Jace himself. Thus, at Daenerys’s suggestion, they wrapped and cinched it with soft velvets to further blunt it.  
  
          Though Lucas was not easily angered by his son, Jace was impeding Ser Nakarro, and this talk would be an important one. When Jace’s assault seemed that it would last forever, Lucas decided to end it. “Jace, enough!” he boomed. “I need to speak with Ser Nakarro.”  
  
          Jace looked to his father and took on a meek expression, his violet eyes big and innocent. He looked so much like his mother when he made that face. “Sowwy,” he said. He wasn’t good with his R’s yet, but he was still a sharp speaker for his age. Most boys of seventeen months could speak very few words, Lucas had been told. Jace could speak more than twenty. That ‘sowwy’ was his go-to response whenever he displeased his mother or father, as though that utterance would put everything to bed. And usually, it did.  
  
          After Jace slunk away towards his mother, Ser Nakarro smoothly strode to Lucas. As the knight approached, Elayna approached alongside him, with a fresh shirt in hand. Lucas stood from his chair and took it from her.  
  
          “What is it you wish to speak of?” Ser Nakarro asked.  
  
          Lucas pulled the shirt down over his head. “You’re a man of the Seven,” he said as he then tidied it.  
  
          “I am, Your Grace.”  
  
          “Why is that? Very few in Essos are.”  
  
          When Ser Nakarro opened his mouth to speak, he and Lucas heard Aelyssa burp. They looked to Daenerys, who had Aly held against her shoulder. Aly had finished her meal of mother’s milk, it seemed. At the two men’s gaze, Daenerys gave a shy smile. One of her breasts were briefly bare before Elayna could re-fasten her bodice, but Lucas had no qualms over Ser Nakarro seeing that. It was to be expected for Kingsguard to see their charges in various states of nakedness. And if Lucas didn’t trust them with that, he wouldn’t have knighted them.  
  
          Ser Nakarro looked back to Lucas. “My mother was Westerosi. She followed the Seven. She taught me the Westerosi faith and tongue.”  
  
          “You’ve told me of her, I believe,” Lucas said, remembering. “Where was she from in Westeros?”  
  
          “The stormlands. Griffin’s Roost. She was a pious woman. She was nineteen and still a maiden when a band of Tyroshi stole her from her home and sold her to the Lyseni. Then a Volantene master purchased her for his personal use. I was the son of our master.”  
  
          _‘Son of our master.’_ That was sour to hear. Few things in the world were viler. “What happened to her?” Lucas asked. He was hesitant to know, but his curiosity won out.  
  
          Ser Nakarro’s face grew stiff, and his gaze stiffer. “She threw herself from the roof of our master’s manse. She had suffered from melancholy ever since they’d taken her. When I was young, I heard her weep when our master lay with her. That was when she still had tears left to shed.”  
  
          That silenced Lucas. He knew not what to say. Perhaps that explained why Ser Nakarro was not a lustful man. He was soured on it from a young age.  
  
          “And what happened to your master?” Daenerys asked cautiously. Aly was now cradled in her arms, already napping.  
  
          Ser Nakarro turned his iron gaze towards her. “I killed him when your dragons dawned over the city. I killed him with the sword he gave me to guard him with. He was never cruel to me, but that mattered not. I killed him for my mother.”  
  
          “I’m sorry,” Daenerys said softly. “For your mother.”  
  
          Ser Nakarro gave a small smile. “You have my thanks.”  
  
          “Do you take after her?”  
  
          “I do. Mine eyes are hers. Mine hair too.”  
  
          “She must’ve been a beautiful woman.”  
  
          Ser Nakarro’s face stiffened again. “She was. She deserved a better fate than the one given to her. But I gave her justice.”  
  
          “Ser Nakarro,” Lucas said, his voice returned to him. “Have you ever led a prayer before?”  
  
          The knight looked back to Lucas. “Yes. Many times. My mother taught me what to say. The other guardsmen in my master’s manse were not of my faith, but they came to me a few times for my Westerosi prayers, when R’hllor did not heal those ill in their family.”  
  
          Lucas’s gaze fell to the floor, ashamed. “I’ve never been pious,” he admitted. “I’m not a good follower of the faith. I haven’t lit a candle to any of the Seven in many years. My father treaded better with the faith, and even he wasn’t great with it, he’d say the same. He told me once that my mother Maraya was perfect in both family and faith. _‘An angel,’_ he called her.”  
  
          “May I know what happened to her?” Ser Nakarro asked.  
  
          “A pox took her when I was but a babe. I was still nursing at her breast. We both fell ill with it. I survived. She died. I’ve no real memory of her. Perhaps if she’d lived longer, my father and I both would have been better with the faith.” After a moment of silence, Lucas stood to his feet and met Ser Nakarro’s hazel eyes. “I want you to lead us in a prayer before we all leave.” Lucas glanced at Daenerys and beckoned for her to approach.  
  
          “There are others who will go,” Ser Nakarro noted, hesitant. “Will you not have them join us for this prayer?”  
  
          “The other Kingsguard from Essos follow their red god; Ser Barristan will remain here, guarding my children; and Colton cares not for _any_ Gods,” Lucas explained. “All those who need be here, are here. This is for us three.”  
  
          Ser Nakarro nodded. “As you command.”  
  
          Elayna helped up Jace into her lap on the edge of his parents’ bed. Daenerys swaddled Aly and gently laid her in her crib. Once Aly was comfortable, Daenerys started towards Lucas and Ser Nakarro. “How do we begin?” she asked.  
  
          “Join hands,” Ser Nakarro said.  
  
          Ser Nakarro, Lucas, and Daenerys all formed a small circle and took hold of each other’s hands. Lucas took one of his knight’s and one of his wife’s. Daenerys’s soft hand was pale like cream, and warm, very warm; the polished steel of Ser Nakarro’s lobstered gauntlet was cool to the touch.  
  
          “Bow your heads,” the knight bid. They all did. “Shut your eyes.” Lucas did that too. “Father, we ask that you see the justice of our cause. Warrior, we ask that you grant us strength. Smith, we ask that you protect us. Crone, we ask that you share your wisdom. Mother, we ask that you show us mercy. Maiden, we ask that you keep our queen from those who would defile her. Stranger, should we perish, we ask that you safeguard us on our journey from this world to the next. Seven, hear our prayers, know our hearts, and guide us, now when we need you most. Hear us. Know us. Guide us.”  
  
          “Hear us. Know us. Guide us,” said Lucas.  
  
          “Hear us. Know us. Guide us,” said Daenerys.  
  
          “Hear us. Know us. Guide us,” said Elayna from where she sat.  
  
          Lucas opened his eyes and released the hands he held. “Gather the others,” he commanded Ser Nakarro. “Tell them we leave in an hour.”  
  
          Ser Nakarro bowed. “As you command.” He turned and left.  
  
          The knight closed the door behind him. Lucas still held Daenerys’s hand. When he turned and looked upon her, she was already looking upon him. There was doubt in her eyes, but there was determination too. “We are the blood of the dragon,” she said.  
  
          Lucas gave a firm nod. “We are the blood of the dragon.”  
  
          Jace stormed over to them, his play sword raised high into the air. “Dagan!” he exclaimed.  
  
          Lucas’s fleet would arrive within sight of Driftmark at evenfall. But Lucas would not be with his fleet when it did. Nor would Colton, nor would Daenerys, nor six of their seven Kingsguard knights, nor their three dragons.  
  
          They flew west with all the speed that Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark could muster. They beat their massive wings hard and fast, moving as blurs of red and gold, white and violet, and blue and green. The wind from each wing beat was deafening.  
  
          Saddled on Rhaegon behind Lucas were Colton, Ser Nakarro, Ser Stallan, and Ser Brachar. Saddled on Dreamwing behind Daenerys were Ser Joreus, Ser Lezero, and Ser Aerar. Colton and the knights had never ridden a dragon before, but they all held fast, unshaken. Lucas had expected the knights to be as fearless in this as they were in all else, but he was truly impressed by Colton. The knights wore their full steel suits of silvery Kingsguard armor, with their greathelms donned and strapped. Lucas wore the same, save only for his greathelm, which was at his waist. Colton wore a full suit of steel as well, but his was a dark gray, and had a cuirass embossed with the House Rykker sigil of two hammers crossed. A Free Legion smith had it created for him early in their campaign across the Free Cities, before the Free Legion had its name. Daenerys wore much the same sort of armor as when she took the Free Cities alongside Lucas, with a silver-tinted _‘gown’_ of mail on top and a gambeson of padded cotton beneath. It was more than enough to stop dead any arrow fired up at them. Lucas, Colton, and each of the knights all had empty hessian sacks fastened tightly to their waists. Lucas’s and Daenerys’s hair both streamed far behind them during the flight.  
  
          Though they were flying far, far overhead, at least twenty thousand feet above the land below, they still used clouds for cover wherever they could, out of caution. If it was possible, Lucas wanted not one outside soul to know of this deed till they had departed.  
  
          The clouds were colder than anything Lucas had ever felt. It was an awful flight. The tiny ice shards within the clouds stung Lucas’s face horribly, and they were so high up that it was difficult for Lucas to gather breath from the thin air, and his heart was racing, and his hands were trembling ... and yet he ignored all of it, and with ease. He would not waver. His focus was resolute. This was a long time coming, and he would not be swayed from it. _For King’s Landing,_ Lucas told himself. _For King Aerys. For my uncle Montaerys. For Elia Martell, for her babes. For Drandon and Drandon._  
  
          Tywin Lannister had a song crafted for him, _‘the Rains of Castamere,’_ for when he exterminated House Castemere on account of their insolence. It had been sung throughout the land, proudly by some, sadly by others. Tywin had made sure of that. Now Lucas would have _his_ song. _‘The Razing of Casterly Rock.’_ It would be sung forever. Lucas would make sure of that.  
  
          When the dragons burst from their blanket of clouds, they were upon Casterly Rock. Lucas had seen it once before, when he visited many years ago as a young boy, when his father still lived. But it was a much different sight from the back of a dragon.  
  
          It was a sprawling castle carved out of a massive mountain of reddish rock that poetically looked much like a lion in repose. Spiraling roads encircled the mountain all the way from the City of Lannisport at the foot of it to the imposing ringfort at its crest, with countless watchtowers, battlements, and gates dotting it all along the way. The cresting ringfort loomed high over Lannisport’s large harbor, thousands of feet above it. At the mountain’s foot, a wide drawbridge connected Lannisport with Casterly Rock’s lowest and largest entrance. To an army, Casterly Rock’s defenses were nigh impenetrable. To a trio of dragons, they meant nothing.  
  
          The dragons’ shadows blanketed Casterly Rock in darkness as they soared above it. Once directly overhead, Lucas kicked as far low on Rhaegon as he could. Rhaegon obeyed the command, twisting and shearing his body downwards so suddenly and swiftly that it was a wonder the ruby dragon did not break into pieces. His siblings followed close behind. The three dragons dove at a speed Lucas wasn’t sure was possible. The air whipped and slashed Lucas’s face so harshly that he could not help but squint through it.  
  
          From his single visit to Casterly Rock many years ago, when his father still lived, Lucas had learned that the ravens were kept in the ringfort’s eastmost tower. It was there that the dragons flew first, and swiftly. No messages would be sent out on that day. When the dragons came to an abrupt halt before the tower, the force of it had Lucas and the others all lurch forward in their saddles. Lucas and Daenerys were quick to give the command. “Dracarys!” they shouted in unison.  
  
          Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark unleased huge, streaming gouts of blazing dragonfire upon the tower, one stream shimmering white, a second scarlet red, and a third deep blue. The flames poured out over the stone of the tower and filled the open windows. Lucas heard ravens shriek within as the fire took them.  
  
          The stone of the tower melted under the hellish heat of the endless dragonfire. It began leaning to one side, till its waning structural integrity could no longer keep itself upright. The upper piece of the tower, cone roof and all, fell off and plummeted down to the earth below. It hit with a loud _crash_ as the misshapen rubble shattered and scattered about.  
  
          By the time the ravenry tower was no more, Lucas could hear men shouting below. On the rising roads that encircled Casterly Rock, scatterings of people ran about, darting for shelter. Commonfolk abandoned their carts as guards went to the nearest battlements. They were either running to their posts or fleeing for their lives. It was hard for Lucas to tell which.  
  
          “Skyshark!” Lucas shouted as he turned his head and looked upon the sapphire dragon. The eager beast’s blue scales glittered in the sunlight as his green wings beat at the air. “Dracarys lōgors!”  
  
          Lucas had first taught the dragons _‘lōgor’_ not long ago, in Tyrosh. It was High Valyrian for: _‘ship.’_  
  
          The sapphire dragon gave only one blink before ducking down and darting off. Lucas watched him soar down to Lannisport’s harbor, roaring all the way. The Lannister _‘fleet’_ present was a negligible one. The Greyjoys from the nearby Iron Islands were rebelling yet again, and much of the Lannister fleet was thus either destroyed or elsewhere deployed. A few cogs were anchored in the harbor, and a few more were half-finished in their shipyards. Before long, all would be smoldering wrecks burning with blue flames. Soon that harbor would sing the song of dragon-waged war, of crackling fires, wrenching wood, screaming horses, and shouting men. It was a song Lucas had come to know well.  
  
          With kicks and commands, Lucas and Daenerys directed Rhaegon and Dreamwing to fly to the ringfort’s innermost keep, where Casterly Rock’s Great Hall was housed. The dragons descended upon the spacious, stone-paved road in front of the keep’s main doors. The moment they landed, Lucas, Colton, and the Kingsguard knights on Rhaegon and Dreamwing unfastened themselves from their saddles and climbed down from the dragons. Daenerys remained in her saddle.  
  
          Within seconds, Lucas was on his feet alongside Ser Nakarro, Ser Joreus, Ser Lezero, Ser Stallan, Ser Brachar, Ser Aerar, and Colton. Though fully armored, Lucas and Colton had armed themselves only with a single longsword. It was what they were most comfortable with, if not most capable. Lucas’s was his late father’s longsword, that with the bejeweled scabbard and sea green gemstone-studded crossguard. Colton’s was fresh-forged and without history, but plenty sharp and plenty deadly. The Sers Nakarro, Lezero, Stallan, and Brachar carried both longswords and broad heater shields emblazoned with a thrice-headed dragon. Ser Aerar carried a longsword and longbow, while Ser Joreus carried a double-bladed greataxe. Ser Joreus was the fieriest and fiercest of Lucas’s Kingsguard; he preferred cleaving men rather than running them through.  
  
          Lucas turned to his dragon. “Rhaegon, pryjagon sombāzmion!” he commanded. _‘Destroy castle.’_ It was a command Lucas and Daenerys had practiced often. The former manses of the Free Cities’ worst masters had been prime for such practice.  
  
          Rhaegon cocked back his head and let out a deafening roar, and only when his breath was spent did he launch from his legs and take to the skies. The ruby dragon would have much of the ringfort reduced to molten rubble before long, and many of the battlements dotting the mountainside too, if given enough time. Rhaegon savored destruction, reveled in it. It was his greatest satisfaction. There was a chance Rhaegon would raze a hall while Lucas and his men walked within ... yet such were the risks of a war waged with dragons. But Rhaegon was no mindless beast. He could see where Lucas and his men were walking. He would avoid the ringfort’s Great Hall ... or at least save it for last.  
  
          Lucas and his men marched briskly towards the doors. Steel sang as they all drew their weapons. “Be careful, my love,” Daenerys called out from behind them.  
  
          Lucas looked to her over his shoulder. There was an uneasy look upon her face. Daenerys never liked parting from Lucas, even when a battle called for it. And this _‘battle’_ was an even greater danger than the usual. “Fear not, my love,” Lucas replied coolly. “Never has a lion killed a dragon.” That brought Daenerys a smile. “Go,” Lucas told her.  
  
          Daenerys nodded. Without another word, she kicked high on Dreamwing and sent the she-dragon launching from the earth. Unlike her brother Skyshark, Dreamwing was silent as she flew off. She and her rider had an important part to play in this strike. As Lucas had instructed beforehand, they would patrol Casterly Rock’s numerous entrances. If any guards or soldiers gathered outside to push into the fort and repel Lucas and his men, Daenerys and Dreamwing would burn them before they could.  
  
          Lucas donned his greathelm and fastened it. Just as he arrived at the keep’s iron-studded doors, they began opening, pushed apart by a single Lannister guardsman wearing steel colored black and red. The guard’s halfhelm bared his mouth, jaw, and his neck; a vast swath of unprotected flesh. Before the guard could breathe a word, Lucas calmly raised his sword arm and smoothly drove the point of his blade up and through the soft flesh of the guard’s exposed throat. When Lucas withdrew the blade, the guard fell hard onto his back in a loud crash of steel, crimson blood rushing from his throat. He was dead by the time the last of Lucas’s Kingsguard stepped over him.  
  
          There was not another guard to contend with on the short walk from the keep’s entry to the Great Hall. Lucas had expected that. Lord Varys had been keeping him well-informed on the goings-on of Westeros. Though they hid it well, the Lannisters were drained. Robb Stark had dealt them a serious blow in every single battle before he was assassinated; the Brotherhood Without Banners harassed them constantly in the riverlands; and now the Greyjoys were again raiding and reaving. That all left the Lannisters stretched thin. Vulnerable.  
  
          The keep’s Great Hall was eerily quiet. Within were a dozen guardsmen at least, all standing in sequential formation along the walls. Lucas knew that at least a dozen more unseen were doubtless within earshot. _Good odds,_ Lucas thought to himself. His knights were each worth ten of these guards.  
  
          The hall was as gaudy and excessively extravagant as was expected, with banners and carpets bearing the colors red and gold most of all. Nowhere could one look without viewing the Lannister’s proud lion sigil, gold and roaring on a field of red. They were so bloody proud of that lion, as if _it_ was the creature that ruled all beasts.  
  
          The present guardsmen all drew their swords at the sight of Lucas, but Lucas paid them little mind. He was more interested in the sight farthest from him. Near a throne were two lords, both well-dressed and dark of hair, as well as an old man dressed in a maester’s simple robes and clutching a walking cane that looked like little more than a carved stick. Just beyond, seated upon said throne was a middle-aged, lavishly-dressed lord, layered in black and crimson silks. His shoulder-length hair had white roots, but the gold of his locks was unmistakable, as were his emerald eyes. The first Lannister was an easy find.  
  
          “What is the meaning of this?” asked the gold-haired lord, calmer than Lucas had expected. “Who are you?”  
  
          “My name is Lucas Velaryon. By birthright, I am Lord of Driftmark and Master of the Tides. By marriage to Daenerys Targaryen, I am King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”  
  
          The gold-haired lord paused. He knew who Lucas was. He’d heard the tales. He’d needed be born deaf to have not. The Lannister guards all glared fiercely at Lucas, but Lucas looked only upon the gold-haired lord. “The Targaryens rule no longer,” the Lannister lord finally said.  
  
          “They will again,” Lucas replied at once. “Pray tell _your_ name, my lord?”  
  
          “Lord Jaran Lannister. Cousin of Tywin. In Queen Cersei’s stead, I preside over Casterly Rock.”  
  
          “And you two are?” Lucas asked, eyeing the other lords.  
  
          “Asten Payne,” said the lord on the left. His eyes were a cool gray, his hair black. He was balding of head but grizzly of beard.  
  
          “Gawen Westerling,” said the lord on the right. His eyes were brown. His well-brushed, chestnut hair reached his shoulders. Like the Lannister lord, he was middle-aged, his face set with deep lines and his hair growing from roots of white.  
  
          The Houses Payne and Westerling were both minor houses of the westerlands. Both were bannermen to the Lannisters. Neither were Lucas’s concern. “Go find somewhere to hide,” Lucas instructed the two of them. “Below ground, preferably. Do not attempt to escape till we’re gone, for your own sake. And remember this mercy in the days to come.”  
  
          The two lesser lords seemed hesitant to obey ... but then a distant dragon’s roar was heard muffled through the walls. The lesser lords’ breath visibly caught in their chests.  
  
          “Your ears do not fool you,” Lucas said, booming his voice throughout the hall. “Casterly Rock and Lannisport are now beset by three very large dragons. Doubtless you’ve heard talk of my wife and me unleashing them upon the Free Cities. Now we’ve unleashed them upon you.” Timed fatefully well, another roar then came. Lucas looked to the two lesser lords. _“Go.”_  
  
          They went, fleeing for the nearest door, without so much as looking to their liege lord for counsel or command. The maester shifted as to shamble away as well. “Not you, maester,” Lucas said suddenly. “I’ll be needing your services here in a moment. And you’d do best to obey me.” The old maester stilled and stayed where he was. Lucas looked to Lord Jaran for a moment, and then looked to Ser Aerar beside him. “Nock and draw.”  
  
          The knight’s longbow creaked as he drew it back, bringing the arrow to the side of his head. Even he, among the strongest of Lucas’s Free Legion, would not be able to keep the arrow drawn for long.  
  
          “Lower that weapon!” shouted one of the guards, his hands visibly tightening around the hilt of his sword. He took a step towards Lucas, but only that one, for just as he took that step came another dragon’s roar. Lucas could see through the guard’s helm his eyes dart back and forth at the sound of it. The other guards were no less visibly shaken.  
  
          “Lord Jaran Lannister, your family murdered my wife’s father, sister-in-law, niece, and nephew, murdered the son and brother of my second mother, burned my uncle on the Blackwater Rush, and sits an illborn bastard on the Iron Throne. I will give you this command only once: approach, bend the knee, and face your king’s justice.”  
  
          Jaran looked from Lucas to Ser Aerar, and then to the drawn arrow staring him down. The arrow was utterly still. Despite the strain of the drawback, Ser Aerar’s arms did not tremble.  
  
          _Resist,_ Lucas thought darkly as he leered at Jaran. _Resist me. Give me cause.  
_  
          Jaran slowly shook his head. “I think not,” he said softly. There seemed a knowing sadness in his eyes.  
  
          That gave Lucas pause. He had expected denial, or fury, or fear ... anything but that. Anything but acceptance. This lord was not the rabid dog that Lucas had thought to find.  
  
          Lucas looked to Ser Aerar again. “Loose.”  
  
          Ser Aerar opened his hand from the arrow. The bowstring snapped back into place as the arrow went forth. It whisked effortlessly through the air, fletching fluttering, arrowhead spinning. For just a fleeting moment, the hall was utterly silent ... till the arrow struck Lord Jaran in the chest with a _thunk_ that could be heard throughout. Jaran grunted, and then collapsed, tumbling down from his throne till he thumped to a stop on the stone floor.  
  
          When the plans had been made aboard Dragon’s Dawn, Lucas had given Colton and the knights of the Kingsguard clear commands: _“Spare the servants and the women and girls. No one else. Every Lannister man dies. Accept no yields. Award no mercy. Their line ends in this third century.”_  
  
          Chaos unraveled. Servants screamed, then guardsmen shouted, then boots stormed against stone, and then steel clanged against steel. As with the slain guard at the front doors, each of the guardsmen wore steel of black and red all chased and embossed with gold, with halfhelms on their heads, and with pauldrons, gauntlets, and tassets all lobstered. Bright red cloaks were clasped at their shoulders. Those cloaks were what Lucas saw most of all, swirling about in blurs of red much brighter than their blood.  
   
          In the blink of an eye, the guardsmen were swarming Lucas from every direction. But he and his party were prepared, and each guard was ran through or cut down as they came. Ser Aerar felled two guards with arrows through their shouting mouths before drawing his sword. Ser Nakarro deftly drove the better part of his blade through an exposed throat that he’d made open to attack with a powerful bash of his shield. Shifting smoothly, Ser Stallan sliced the exposed back of a guard’s knee. Elsewhere, with a heavy swing of his greataxe, Ser Joreus split open a guard’s pauldron and nearly halved his torso as he cleaved him from shoulder blade to sternum.  
  
          Lucas did not stand encircled by his Kingsguard. He fought shoulder-to-shoulder with them. The seventeen months sparring with Ser Barristan had made his swordplay far sharper than ever before. He held his sword as one often would when they fought men who were armored: with one hand gripping the blade halfway down the length. Half-swording, it was called. It made a sword into a spear.  
  
          Lucas struck down guard after guard almost without effort, parrying and misdirecting heavy oncoming blows with loud _clangs_ and then jabbing his sword into whatever exposed crack he could find, armpits, elbows, throats, groins. At the attack of one guard, Lucas grappled with him till he twisted the man’s sword from his hands, freeing him to press his own sword’s edge against the man’s throat and run it across. Blood blossomed from the wound in a rush of scarlet. The next guard to confront him was craftier. He feigned a sideways swipe but twisted it into a thrust at the gap between Lucas’s armor at his groin. Lucas was not taken by surprise. He sidestepped it with space to spare and grabbed the guard, grappling again. But this guard was not to be overpowered or outmaneuvered like the one before him. Before either the guard or Lucas could overwhelm the other, the tip of a sword suddenly appeared in the middle of the guard’s throat. When the guard fell, Colton was revealed behind him. If that was Colton’s sword’s first blooding, it was a fitting one: in aid of his brother and king.  
  
          The last castle guard to charge them went for Lucas. The guard brought his sword down hard in an overhead swing. It was no threat. In one smooth flourish, Lucas brought up his sword, caught the edge of the guard’s blade with his own, twisted the guard’s sword down to his hip, shifted, hooked his bejeweled hilt around the guard’s neck, pulled him down, and then bashed the back of the his head with his pommel. The blunt strike rung the guard’s helm like a bell, and he fell onto his hands and knees in what must’ve been a cloudy daze. Before the guard could gather his bearings, Ser Joreus stomped over and brought his greataxe down on the back of his neck. The knight took the guard’s head as though he had been knelt over a chopping block.  
  
          The chaos of the hall was then quelled. At the throne where Jaran’s lifeless body was slumped, the maester remained, gazing down at his dead lord. Lucas was almost surprised the maester obeyed his order to stay ... but then again, if he needed a cane to walk, he couldn’t have been able to flee far.  
           
          As Lucas and his men approached the maester, Lucas could better see the chain around the old man’s wrinkled neck. Each link in the chain was of a different metal, and each signified a different knowledge. Lucas knew the meaning of most of them. Iron was for warcraft, black iron was for ravenry, bronze was astronomy. Notably, none of the maester’s links were Valyrian steel, which signified knowledge of ‘the higher mysteries.’ A shame. Dragon dreams were one of those higher mysteries, and Lucas would’ve liked to ask about what he had recently foreseen, limited in time though he was.  
  
          When Lucas was upon him, the maester slowly turned his head, which was smoothly bald and dotted with liverspots. He beheld Lucas with cloudy, gray eyes, above which were white eyebrows so thick that they looked like caterpillars. He had a broad, round face, with wrinkles aplenty. Upon his face was an expression not fearful, nor angered. It was only ... tired. The Lannisters had been waging war endlessly since the Usurper’s death, Lucas knew. It seemed that this old man had grown weary of that.  
  
          With the cloudiness of his eyes, the old maester might’ve been nearly blind. But he could see Lucas, could focus on him, that much was obvious. When his cloudy eyes found Lucas’s, the maester said only one thing: _“Why?”_  
  
          That question took Lucas off-guard, but he had his answer soon enough. “This is war, Maester,” he said, not unkindly, as he leered at the old man. “The Lannisters are my enemies. My father taught me that in a war, you _kill_ your enemies. From that iron on your chain, I know the Citadel taught you the same.”  
  
          To that, the maester had no reply.  
  
          “I meant what I said before, Maester,” Lucas went on. “You’d do best to obey. Now tell me your name.”  
  
          “Ogdin, my lord,” he answered quietly.  
  
          “Maester Ogdin, I am your king, and I command you to accompany us as we search this keep. I’ve need of a man who knows the castle and its occupants.”  
  
          “Only a Grand Maester can serve a king,” Ogdin said slowly, his voice suddenly scratchy. He cleared his throat. “I am sworn to serve the Lord of Casterly Rock.”  
  
          “Fine then. Here is your choice, Maester: accompany us, and I will spare most every person inside this castle. Refuse, and everyone will die.” Lucas brought his sword up and poked the sharp tip of it against the maester’s robes at his belly. “Yourself included,” he said. Glaring into Ogdin’s gray eyes, Lucas went on. “The Citadel sent you to serve a family of traitors and murderers. That’s not your fault. So don’t die for them. And don’t condemn all the servants here to die for them either.”  
  
          For a moment, a quiet fell over them ... till a dragon’s rumbling roar broke it. “How many will you spare?” Ogdin finally asked.  
  
          “All the servants, and every noblewoman and girl.”  
  
          Another moment passed. Then came another roar. Then Ogdin nodded.  
  
          “Ser Stallan, keep the maester in hand,” Lucas commanded in the knight’s native Bastard Valyrian tongue as he looked his way. “If he cannot keep up, haul him over your shoulder.” Ser Stallan gave a nod in response. Lucas looked back to Ogdin. “Which Lannisters are here?”  
  
          “Jaran Lannister and his twin sons Rylem and Rewan. Martyn Lannister, his wife Arwyn, and their son Tysen. No more.”  
  
          “Jaran’s twins, where are they?”  
  
          Somberly, Ogdin guided Lucas and his men down a nearby spiral stairway and a series of several long halls. The old maester explained that most of Casterly Rock’s expanse was below ground, carved out of the rock. The halls, battlements, and towers of the ringfort above ground were for defending against an attack. They were not living space. In the halls, Lucas happened upon many a servant fleeing, some young, some old, some clutching valuables to make off with, others barehanded. Most looked terrified, their heads on swivels as distant dragon roars were heard again and again. Lucas let them all flee. Those that appeared sharply around corners and nigh bumped into his knights, he allowed to turn around and run off unscathed. Those that fell to their knees and begged for their lives, he ignored and strode past. They weren’t Lucas’s concern. They needed no punishment.  
  
          While Lucas and the others continued onward, Ogdin predicted that Lord Jaran’s sons would make way to the castle’s armory to arm themselves upon an attack. When Lucas’s party entered the armory with steel readied, Ogdin’s prediction was proven right.  
  
          Racks upon racks of swords hung throughout. Empty suits of armor stood in a line as though awaiting to salute a king. In the far corner of the chamber, standing beside a pried-open crate of steel, indeed stood a pair of gold-haired, green-eyed men of similar face that could only be the Lannisters Rylem and Rewan. Eight guards accompanied them, but Rylem and Rewan had not yet finished donning their armor. Rylem did not yet have on his helm or pauldrons. Rewan had on only his greaves and sabatons. Their heads all whipped to look upon the intruders.  
  
          “Kill them!” Lucas commanded.  
  
          Almost in the same instant the words left him, Ser Aerar loosed an arrow that took Rylem between his eyes. His body tensed violently as he fell. Ser Brachar and Ser Joreus led the ensuing charge, each slaying the guards they advanced upon with a swift flurry of strikes that culminated in a killing blow, slicing flesh and spraying blood. Lucas and the others moved forward just behind them.  
  
          The cramped armory was not the open space that the Great Hall had been. As enemies fell in on all sides, it was impossible to make out much in the ensuing chaos. But mad though the clashing was, Lucas could still determine that it was his own sword that slew Rewan, driving it through his unarmored belly, leaving him to fall and groan on the floor.  
  
          When the last castle guard fell dead, Lucas went to Rewan and gave him his last mercy. His eyes did not even look for Lucas’s as the steel entered him. He had accepted his fate.  
  
          “Your Grace,” Ser Nakarro said. Lucas looked to him, and then to where the knight nodded his head. On the floor was Ser Brachar, flat on his back, his sword still tightly clutched in one hand. The pool of blood beneath him was largely his own, Lucas realized.  
  
          Lucas went over and crouched down beside the knight. Looking into Ser Brachar’s eyes, Lucas found them glazed over and listless. The knight was already dead.  
  
          “Valar morghulis,” Ser Nakarro said.  
  
          “Valar morghulis,” said the other Kingsguard knights in unison.  
  
          “Valar morghulis,” said Lucas.  
  
          “What’s that mean again?” Colton asked.  
  
          “‘All men must die,’” Lucas answered. It was Valyrian, both High and Bastard. Lucas knew the words well. In the aftermaths of the battles for the Free Cities in Essos, he had said them above many a dying legionnaire drawing his final breaths.  
  
          Colton wagged a finger at the fallen knight. “Shall we take his steel?”  
  
          Lucas shook his head. “We’ll all be burdened enough by the end of this, and we’ll be carrying things worth more than steel.” Lucas looked to Maester Ogdin, who Ser Stallan still held firmly by the arm. “Where is Martyn?”  
  
          The Maester’s next suggestion was proven wise as well, as Lucas’s party soon arrived at a bedroom that they realized to be barricaded from within. Short of something to ram it open with, Lucas commanded for Ser Joreus to make use of his monstrous stature and strength to attempt to break it down with brute force. With a few mighty kicks of the knight’s tree-like leg, the door sure enough broke free and flung inward, the rusty hinge exploding into little bits of reddish metal.  
  
          Lucas and his men stormed within, and then halted as they looked upon the room. It was a bedchamber, doubtless, with a large double bed at the far wall, still neatly made, as well as a desk, windows, chairs, two wardrobes side-by-side, and a babe’s crib. Yet, strangely, there was only one soul to be seen. Standing at the foot of the bed staring Lucas down with longsword drawn was a scrawny lord, not tall nor burly, with golden hair and green eyes. He looked barely a man grown, no older than fifteen.  
  
          “This is?...” Lucas asked, glancing at Maester Ogdin.  
  
          “Martyn,” Ogdin answered glumly.  
  
          Martyn Lannister. Barely a man grown, but far from innocent. This little lion lord fought with his family during Robb Stark’s rebellion. How many northmen had he killed? How many rivermen? Lucas wouldn’t mourn those men, but he wouldn’t forget them either.  
  
          Martyn gave an exaggerated shove of his sword. “Stay back,” he barked. “Come no closer.”  
  
          Colton stepped forward, past Lucas, sword in hand. “Let me end the little lion.”  
  
          Lucas gave no objection.  
  
          Colton raised his sword, holding it at his hips. He approached slow but steady, one step after the other, glaring at his foe all the while. Martyn’s green eyes flitted left and right, looking upon Lucas and all the other knights. He soon saw enough. He threw away his sword, went down onto his knees, and raised his hands. “I yield, I yield!” he cried out.  
  
          Colton took on a grin. It was not his usual grin. It was not smug, but vicious. “That was a mistake,” he said. As soon as he was standing over Martyn, he thrusted down with his sword, driving his blade just below Martyn’s neck. Martyn grunted as the sword pierced him. Colton applied another burst of force and shoved the blade through further. Martyn grunted again. He gazed up at Colton, green eyes wide. “I ... yielded,” he muttered.  
  
          When Colton drew back his blade, Martyn slumped.  
  
          “Forgive me,” Lucas heard Maester Ogdin murmur under this breath.  
  
          Just as Colton turned away, towards Lucas and the others, he perked up and looked about. Lucas knew what Colton heard; he heard the same. It sounded like ... a muffled voice.  
  
          Lucas started towards the two wardrobes, brushing past Colton along the way. He brought up his sword and held it there, above his head, raised and ready to kill. When he came to the closest wardrobe, he grabbed its nearest handle ... inhaled ... exhaled ... and then threw open the door.  
  
          Curled up beneath a row of hanging shirts was a pale, teenaged girl with black hair. Hers was a small, pinched face, with not much chin to speak of. She wore an immaculate gown of white and gold, masterfully sewn and scarcely worn. In her hands was a pink babe that looked less than three months old, whose mouth the girl held muffled. When the girl looked upon Lucas, her eyes bulged such that they were almost all white. “Husband ... please,” she whimpered. “Where is my husband?”  
  
          Lucas froze. He’d heard this, seen this, _done this_ all before. This was the dragon dream. High Tide wasn’t the castle that he’d dreamt of. It was Casterly Rock. The young mother and her babe that he’d seen weren’t Daenerys and Aelyssa. It was this girl and her child.  
  
          _Thank the Gods._ Lucas sighed deeply. He lowered his sword to his side. After a pause, he told the girl what he knew she most feared hearing. “Your husband is no more.”  
           
          The girl quivered. Tears flowed freely down her pale cheeks.  
  
          “Who are they?” Lucas asked as he glanced over his shoulder, to Maester Ogdin.  
  
          “The young woman is Arwyn, born of House Frey. She is Walder Frey’s sixth daughter.”  
  
          _Frey,_ Lucas thought sourly. With the northmen Boltons, House Frey had perpetrated the Red Wedding, an act of evil the likes of which the realm hadn’t seen in years. It didn’t shock Lucas that the Lannisters would reward the massacre of a host promised guest right with the betrothal of several of their sons and daughters. _But this girl had no hand in that,_ Lucas knew. He was standing over nothing more than a frightened girl clutching her infant child. They might as _well_ have been Daenerys and Aelyssa. If Lucas killed these two, he would be no better than the Lannister soldiers that murdered Rhaegar’s wife and babes. And Lucas would _never_ be like those monsters.  
  
          “The babe?” Lucas asked.  
  
          “Tysen Lannister,” Ogdin said. “The son of the young man you just slew.”  
  
          Ser Joreus came forward with his greataxe in hand. He did not speak Westeros’s Common Tongue well, but it seemed he recognized the uttering of _‘Lannister.’_ When Arwyn saw him approach, the terror in her bulging eyes only worsened. “Please don’t, my lord, please, please, please,” she begged in a flurry of words. “Mercy, mercy. He’s just a baby.”  
  
          “Shall I slay him, Your Grace?” Ser Joreus asked in his tongue.  
  
          Lucas screwed up his face, shocked. “You mean to kill a babe?”  
  
          Ser Joreus blinked. “You commanded that every Lannister male dies.”  
  
          “Not the babes. We do not kill babes.”  
  
          “W—What are you saying?” Arwyn asked, not knowing the Bastard Valyrian tongue. She was ignored.  
  
          “If the babe lives, the line does not die,” observed Ser Nakarro, who seemed to be thinking deeply on the matter.  
  
          Lucas looked back and forth between the two knights. “We are here to burn out the rot of the realm,” he blazed, scowling. “If we do as the Lannisters have done, _we’re part of the rot.”_ With that, Lucas would speak no more of the killing of babes. He looked back down to Arwyn, who still cowered beneath him. “Listen to me, my lady, and listen well. House Lannister’s days are numbered. But your son will be spared ... because he is no Lannister. From this day forward, by my decree, your son is Tysen Hill, a bastard of the westerlands. Do you understand?”  
  
          Arwyn nodded wildly. “Yes, yes, I understand.”  
  
          “What is your son’s name? Say it back to me.”  
  
          “Tysen Hill. Bastard of the westerlands.”  
  
          “Good. Do not try to change that. Tell Lord Walder what I said, if you’re sent home to him. But for now, stay here. Don’t try to leave till we’re gone, for your own sakes.”  
  
          Arwyn nodded again, her cheeks now shining wet, her babe’s much the same.  
  
          Lucas left her and made way for the door, gesturing with his hand for Colton and the knights to join him.  
  
          Outside the bedchamber, a pair of jogging guards happened upon Lucas and his men. Without hesitation, the guards shouted and charged. Before Lucas could even attempt to take his sword to them, his Kingsguards knights swarmed them with a swiftness. His knights endlessly battered away at them as clangs of steel rang out through the hall. Soon the sound of those clangs turned to slices, then to screams. Not a minute later were they slain. Ser Nakarro plunged his sword through the exposed armpit of one guard at almost the same moment Ser Joreus nearly hacked off the top half of the head of the other.  
  
          When the guards lay dead and their blood pooled around them, Lucas turned and looked upon Maester Ogdin. “We’ve only one more task before we go.”  
  
          The old maester looked even more tired than before. “And it is?”  
  
          “Take us to the Hall of Heroes.”  
  
          Everyone in Westeros knew of the Lannisters’ Hall of Heroes, but few outside their family ever laid eyes on it. Lucas hadn’t the one time he’d visited the Rock as a boy. He was looking forward to this.  
  
          Through many halls and down even more stairways they jogged. Lucas was done dallying, and as such, he and his party moved with haste, much faster than old Maester Ogdin could’ve moved _‘unassisted.’_ Ser Stallan carried him heaved over one shoulder. Embarrassing though it might have been for the maester, Lucas would let the man’s old legs slow them down no longer.  
  
          As they descended stairway after stairway, past the privies, past the storerooms, and past the dungeons, the torches grew fewer and fewer, and the darks blacker and blacker. Lucas and his men each pilfered a torch from the wall sconces as they descended. They would need the light. Soon they were so deep within the bowels of Casterly Rock that the dragon’s roars could no longer be heard. That made Lucas uncomfortable. He much preferred their roars over that silence.  
  
          A thought then came to Lucas that he realized he should’ve asked Ogdin sooner. “Are there scorpions deployed here?”  
  
          “Th-The bolt-throwing machines of old?” Ogdin grunted from over Ser Stallan’s shoulder.  
  
          “The dragon killers, yes,” Colton said tersely.  
  
          “No. All the hardwoods here have been used for shipbuilding. Lord Jaran hadn’t ... he hadn’t thought that ... you would come here.”  
  
          Lucas nodded, relieved. “Good.”  
  
          “H-here,” Ogdin said once they’d arrived at the bottom of the final stairway.  
  
          There was no space between the bottom of the spiral stairway and the locked door that appeared before them. Most of Lucas’s knights had to remain on the upper steps, waiting. “Your master keys,” Lucas said as he looked to Ogdin.  
  
          “My rear pocket.”  
  
          Lucas translated that for Ser Stallan. Nodding, the knight reached into the maester’s aforementioned pocket and produced a ring of iron keys. He tossed them to Lucas, who caught them with one outstretched hand. “Which one?” Lucas asked as he sifted through the keys on the ring.  
  
          “The most rusted one. Five prongs.”  
  
          Lucas found the key in question and thrusted it into the lock. With a slight turn, the lock clicked.  
  
          The door shed dust and pebbles as Lucas pushed it open. Beyond was something the likes of which he’d never before seen. Though the stairway leading down there was cramped, the Hall of Heroes itself was vast and spacious. It was a seemingly endless cavern of a crypt, littered with at least a hundred tombs, some small and modest, others huge and extravagant. The further Lucas held his torch, the more tombs rose from the darkness. He wouldn’t have doubted if damn near every Lannister who ever lived was interred in this hall ... and most all of the long-extinct Casterlys as well.  
  
          Lucas and the others all went forward, looking around, taking in the sight of all they could see, of all their torches’ flames revealed.  
  
          Ogdin shambled forward till he stood at Lucas’s side. He too swept his gaze all around, looking upon every tomb. “He who robs a grave is cursed,” he warned. His voice echoed through the cavern.  
  
          Colton snorted at that. Lucas shared the sentiment. “I never knew a maester to be superstitious,” Lucas said.  
  
          Ogdin shook his head. “It is no superstition. A graverobber has no honor, no dignity, no esteem ... a curse.”  
  
          Lucas whipped towards the maester, leering at him. _“This family_ is the curse,” he said harshly, his temper flaring. “You want to speak of honor? The Lannisters are thieves, murderers, rapers, or the employers of such men. I was taught history, Maester. The Lannisters did not carve this castle out of this mountain. They stole it from those that did. This family has _never_ been innocent. The greatest thing these cretins have ever done was bend the knee to Aegon the Conqueror.” Lucas turned away from the maester, looking forward again. “And they’ve since forgotten how to kneel.” Lucas looked behind his other shoulder, to Colton and the knights. “Go,” he commanded. They promptly spread out, starting with the tombs that looked to be most worth looting.  
  
          “Wouldn’t you rather loot the Golden Gallery?” Ogdin asked. “Why disturb the dead?”  
  
          “It’s not just about the coin ... it’s about punishment.”  
  
          Ogdin’s gaze fell as his head hung. He turned away and began to start off, but Lucas reached for him and grabbed him. Though the sleeves of the maester’s heavy robes were thick, the arm Lucas took was a spindly thing, like a twig. “The Casterlys,” Lucas said when Ogdin’s clouded, gray gaze met his. “Can one tell their tombs from the Lannisters?”  
  
          “The markings. The Lannister tombs are engraved with lions, the Casterly tombs with three coins side-by-side.”  
  
          “Men,” Lucas shouted as he raised his free hand and snapped his fingers thrice. “Open _only_ the tombs marked with lions. Let the Casterlys rest.” With that, Lucas released Ogdin, allowing him to shamble away to a corner. The old maester gingerly lowered himself and sat down, his bottom on the cold floor, his back against a cold wall. Lucas went and joined his men in the looting.  
  
          Most of the tombs were simple affairs to open, never locked nor sealed. Some of the doors had become stuck over the ages, but their iron was weak, and they were broken down without much issue. A few were sealed tight and either needed the combined efforts of multiple knights or the sole effort of Ser Joreus to crack open. Some tombs were empty save only for the dead they housed, but others bore much more fruit. Many Lannisters opted to be buried with some of their most prized treasures, it seemed. There were necklaces, brooches, rings, swords, shields. There were even a few pairs of shoes that had all but rotted away.  
  
          Within their opened tombs, the skeletons of long-dead lords and ladies had every valuable metal stripped from them. There was gold endless and diamonds and rubies aplenty. Many bones crumbled to dust when touched, while others snapped or shattered. Of the Lannister lords who had stone busts carved of them, many had brilliantly-cut emeralds for eyes. Lucas had his men take blades to those emeralds and pluck them from their sockets. Every treasure was messily and haphazardly thrown into their hessian sacks. Much of it was fragile, but Lucas cared not. Anything that broke could be smelted down for the raw metal. _Perhaps we’ll smelt it all regardless,_ Lucas thought. _Might be better to give it all a new beginning._  
  
          The largest and most ornate tomb marked with Lannister lions housed a man’s skeleton that was interred with his armor, and still wearing his crown. Inscribed within the tomb was the text: _‘King Loren, the First and Last.’_ Lucas knew the name and title, and he almost felt bad as he snatched the crown. Loren was the Lannister that surrendered and bent the knee to Aegon during the Conquering. For that alone, Loren was likely the wisest Lannister who ever lived.  
  
          As the Hall of Heroes was looted for all Lucas and his men could carry, Lucas’s only nagging regret was that there was no Valyrian steel to take. The Lannister’s ancestral Valyrian steel sword Brightroar was lost centuries ago in the Smoking Sea. It of course was an honor for Lucas to wield his father’s sword, but he’d rather retire it and hang it from a rack. He was a king now, and it was getting past time that he a had a weapon of Valyrian steel.  
  
          “My lord,” Ogdin called out from where he sat.  
  
          Before he could continue, Colton interjected. “He is your king, old man. Address him as such.”  
  
          “Your Grace,” Ogdin corrected himself. “The roars ... your words ... is it true? Have you ... dragons?”  
  
          “I do,” Lucas hollered as he unfastened a bejeweled necklace from a bone-dry neck.  
  
          “How large are they?”  
  
          “Very.”  
  
          “How ... how many?”  
  
          “Three.”  
  
          “May I ... see them?”  
  
          Lucas had planned to let the old maester make his own way out of Casterly Rock’s bowels ... but Ogdin had served them well. If nothing else, he deserved at least to see that which no maester had for generations.  “You may,” Lucas finally said.  
  
          Eventually, Lucas and his men had gathered as many treasures as their sacks could hold, which all now noisily rattled and clinked with every step. Lucas knew not the exact state of House Velaryon’s finances, but that mattered not now. Regardless, they would be well off upon his return.  
  
          Lucas summoned for his men to return to him, and then began his exit. It was then that Lucas realized that _a_ scending was to be much more tiring than _de_ scending. Climbing _flight after flight_ of those forsaken stairs wearing full steel and being burdened with that heavy sack left his legs burning like all the seven hells.  
  
          Eager to be liberated from his legs and saddled atop Rhaegon, Lucas at last emerged from Casterly Rock’s keep from exactly where he’d entered it. Once he pushed open the doors and stepped over the first guard he’d slain, once the sky and sun were again above him and fresh air filled his lungs, Lucas saw the extent of Rhaegon’s destruction.  
  
          Casterly Rock’s keep, that which Lucas just exited, was all of the ringfort that still stood. Every surrounding wall, tower, and battlement had been flattened, the wood burnt to ash, the stone reduced to molten rubble. Before Lucas could summon his dragon, great gusts battered him as Rhaegon beat his wings and landed before him. The colossal ruby dragon was breathing heavily, well-exerted. A few patches of his maw were crimson with blood, the last remainder of any men he may or may not have devoured. Lines of black smoke drifted from his nostrils. With a closer look, Lucas saw that the sinewy flesh of Rhaegon’s golden wings were dotted with at least a dozen arrows. It wasn’t the first time one of the dragons took arrows to their wings. If such wounds caused any significant pain, the dragons never showed it. Lucas could only liken it to a man being pricked by a needle. The wounds always healed, and without scarring over.  
  
          “Daenerys! Dreamwing! Skyshark!” Lucas shouted as loud as he could’ve.  
  
          While Lucas went about snapping each stuck arrow from Rhaegon’s wings, Ser Joreus set Maester Ogdin down. The old maester trembled as he looked upon the ruby dragon, his cloudy eyes wide, his frail legs wobbling. “Gods be good,” Ogdin uttered.  
  
          Lucas, Colton, and Sers Nakarro and Joreus climbed atop Rhaegon into their respective saddles. Sers Aerar, Stallan, and Lezero stayed where they stood, watching for any misguided soldiers or guards who would charge from any of the nearby pillars of smoke or piles of rubble.  
  
          Before long, more gusts of wind heralded the descension of another dragon. Down came the diamond-scaled Dreamwing, with Daenerys saddled astride her. Dreamwing landed close to her eldest brother, who let out a single snort at the sight of her. The waiting knights climbed atop Dreamwing and fastened themselves in their saddles.  
  
          “Where is Ser Brachar?” Daenerys asked, looking around, searching for him.  
  
          “Killed,” Lucas said.  
  
          Daenerys frowned.  
  
          Maester Ogdin was now on his knees, his hands on his legs. Skyshark was circling overhead, and Ogdin was peering up at him. “Maester,” Lucas called out to Ogdin, drawing his attention and gaze. “I trust you’ll tell everyone the truths of what you saw here today. Leave nothing out. Tell them of my vengeances, and tell them of my mercies. Tell them that House Lannister has met my justice ... and that there will be more of it to come.” Lucas then kicked each of Rhaegon’s sides, sending the dragon launching into the sky, leaving Maester Ogdin where he was, kneeling in awe.  
  
          Flying eastward, Lucas chose to soar beneath the clouds. He had no desire to feel those ice shards again. And there was no more need for secrecy. _Let all below see us,_ Lucas thought to himself. _Let them know of our arrival._ The dragons’ shadows blanketed whole villages below as they passed over them. Rhaegon’s head alone blackened a farmhouse. Lucas could only imagine the reaction of the smallfolk who looked up and saw them. _Will they fear us? Or will they cheer us?_  
  
          As they flew further east, through the riverlands, Lucas began finding more and more destruction, and for once, none of it was their dragons’ doing. The Threepenny Wood was all but burnt, and many houses in Stoney Sept were ruined. Westeros’s endless warring of the past few years had not been kind to the riverlands. But Lucas would land nowhere in the riverlands that day. It was the crownlands that he sought. Had Lucas not made good time at Casterly Rock, he would’ve needed to save this next task for another night, for after he’d reunited with his family. But no complication had arose, and now he would have his first Westorosi house sworn to him.  
  
          They passed overhead the cities of Stokeworth, Rosby, and more than a dozen little hamlets in their flight through the crownlands. They were halfway along the western coast of Blackwater Bay when they were upon their destination: Duskendale.  
  
          Lucas knew the city well, of course, with all the time he’d spent there in his youth. _But those were very different days, weren’t they?_ he mused. That was before Jaremy Rykker was exiled to the Wall by Tywin Lannister. Before the city had one of the realm’s best views of northmen clashing with southrons in Robb Stark’s rebellion. Though so much had changed, the city looked much the same. Its strong walls were a dark, dour gray, its gates even darker. The layout was spread around its main harbor. Old, cobbled streets webbed between each and every building. At the southwest, the main gatehouse opened to the city’s busiest market square. In that square Lucas could see the Seven Swords, Duskendale’s largest inn. South of Duskendale was a rocky headland that safeguarded it from the narrow sea’s storms, while north of it was a smooth, sandy beach. And it was there, on that beach, that Lucas spotted his welcome party awaiting him.  
  
          As the dragons descended, Lucas could view the party better. There were no fewer than fifty men, all armored, most in chain mail hauberks, and all armed, most with tall halberds pointing skyward. All were on foot. At the two front corners of the party were standard bearers carrying Rykker flags, that with two black hammers crossed on white saltire on blue. Front and center was who must’ve been the lord that Lucas had never seen, who was born after Lucas and his father fled Westeros: Renfred Rykker, or _‘Renny,’_ as Colton affectionately called him.  
  
          It was typical for meetings such as these to be on horseback, especially when not within a city’s walls, but Lucas had found horses to be quite uncooperative around dragons. Thus, he had given the command beforehand for these men to be present on foot.  
  
          Rhaegon, Dreamwing, and Skyshark gave a final beat of their vast wings as they landed with an audible rush of air. Rhaegon was growling and hissing smoke the moment his claws curled into the sand, displeased by the armed and unfamiliar men. Lucas didn’t bother to try to calm him. _Let him frighten these men,_ Lucas thought. The wrath of a king ought to be a fearful thing, after all.  
  
          Lucas, Colton, and the Kingsguard knights all dismounted, unfastening their saddles and stepping down from the dragons they rode. Once on his own feet, Lucas went to Dreamwing. As always, Daenerys took Lucas’s hands and accepted his aid to lower her down, slowly and gently.  
  
          Once down, Daenerys smiled at Lucas. Lucas smiled back. “Ready to meet our first vassals?” he asked, quiet enough that the others could not hear.  
  
          “Yes.”  
  
          Lucas took her hand and walked with her to where their Kingsguard knights already stood. It was there that Lucas saw that Colton had already broke formation. He had rushed forward to his little brother and was now embracing with him.  
  
          “... missed you,” Lucas heard one of them murmur. Renfred, it sounded like.  
  
          “... back now,” Colton said.  
  
          When their embrace ended and Colton stepped back, Lucas finally got a good look at Renfred. He had his elder brother’s same thin face and the same long black hair, but his brown eyes were a little deeper set and closer together, and his chin a little sharper. Renfred also lacked at least three inches of Colton’s height. And while Colton kept a steady stubble, Renfred’s whiskers were nothing more than thin patches of hair along his face and a meager, fuzzy mustachio above his upper lip. _  
_  
          Close to Renfred, Lucas recognized Colton’s younger uncle, Warrek. Of their two uncles, he, notably, was the one that did _not_ betray Colton to Randyll Tarly and his Lannister lieges. Warrek wasn’t as thin-framed as his nephews, but his short-cut hair was the same jet black, and his sharp eyes were the same deep brown. Where the other uncle was, the betrayer, Lucas could not say. Perhaps he had relocated to King’s Landing, like the Lannister lapdog he was.  
  
          “Renfred, Uncle Warrek, men,” Colton said as he introduced Lucas and Daenerys with a sweeping gesture. “Before you is Lucas of House Velaryon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of Driftmark, Master of the Tides, and Liberator of the Free Legion. Beside him is Daenerys of _House_ _Targaryen,_ the First of Her Name, the Last of her Line, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Lady of Driftmark ... and the Mother of Dragons.” Colton took his time with the titles, giving each word a great deal of gravitas.  
  
          Warrek was the first to kneel, falling quick, bowing his head. “Kneel, men,” he ordered. “They’re your _true_ king and queen.”  
  
          Though Renfred was the head of their house, the soldiers immediately heeded the eldest lord, lowering to their knees and bowing their heads just as he did. Renfred joined them.  
  
          While they knelt, Colton went to his place at Lucas’s side, where the Hand of the King belonged. Renfred, Warrek, and their men still knelt. Lucas let them continue to do so for a while, till he decided they’d paid their respects for long enough. “Rise,” he said.  
  
          They rose. When standing straight again, Renfred stared at Daenerys. “Are you really ...”  
  
          “I am,” Daenerys said with a solemn nod. “Daughter of Aerys and Rhaella. Sister to Viserys and Rhaegar. They are all gone, but I am not.” Lucas and Daenerys had thought of that together, _‘they are all gone, but I am not.’_ It was somber but severe.  
  
          “Well, I’ve never met a Targaryen before, but I know one when I see one,” Renfred said. “You look a little different than the Velaryons.” Renfred glanced at Lucas. “Well, most Velaryons.”  
  
          “Fairer of skin, golder of hair, paler of eyes,” Warrek mused, nodding, as he gazed upon Daenerys. “I spoke with your mother a few times, Your Grace, back when I was but a young man. I remember her well. You are very much her daughter. Though I must say, I never saw her wearing mail. I never saw her astride a dragon either.”  
  
          Renfred looked from Daenerys to Lucas. “So you’re the consort, then?” he asked with a mocking smirk that looked too much like Colton. “Only good for making the babes?”  
  
          Lucas laughed. “Not quite.”  
  
          “My lord husband and I rule together,” Daenerys said.  
  
          Lucas looked to Daenerys and smiled. “Daenerys is my queen, but she doesn’t know this land like I do. And she can’t exactly wield a sword like I can either.” Lucas looked back to the men before him and swept his gaze over them all. “We both have our parts to play ... she is the blood, and I am the blade.”  
  
          “You sound bloody smart when you talk,” Renfred remarked, one eyebrow cocked.  
  
          “That’s because he’s spent too many years with little to do but read,” Colton said as he clapped Lucas’s nearest pauldron with his gauntlet. “And His Grace might be the blade, but it’s not like he’s _without_ royal blood. He and our queen aren’t the first time a Velaryon lord had his heir pushed out from between a Targaryen’s legs.”  
  
          Daenerys almost winced at the crudeness of that comment, and Lucas couldn’t much blame her.  
  
          Lucas swiftly redirected everyone’s attention to the dragons, beholding Rhaegon with a sweeping gesture of his own. “As you can all see, my wife is called the Mother of Dragons for good reason. We know not exactly how, but it was her who hatched these three.”  
  
          “It’s still hard to believe, even as I stand before them,” Warrek said as he looked from Rhaegon, to his siblings, and back. Rhaegon’s anger had cooled somewhat, but his glowering gaze was still a fierce one. “Have they names?”  
  
          “They do. The ruby dragon is Rhaegon. He is my steed. The diamond one, Dreamwing, is Daenerys’s. The sapphire one, Skyshark, has no rider as of yet.”  
  
          “It’s easy to know you’re on the winning side when you stand before them,” Warrek mused. “The difference they make ... when Aegon took his three dragons to battle against the King of the Rock and the King of the Reach, with his men outnumbered fivefold ... the numbers meant nothing.”  
  
          Lucas grinned. “The dragons will see that I reunite Westeros, but I assure you that I could take all but Dorne and the north without them. The twenty thousand men of my Free Legion are the finest soldiers I’ve ever seen. They are former slaves all, and they draw great strength from that. They are blooded, battle-hardened, and utterly loyal. Most of them fought in multiple liberations. They’ve met two sellsword companies on open fields and routed them both, one outside Norvos, the other outside Qohor. And my knights here are the best of them.”  
  
          “Then it’s time Westerosi men share in their glory,” Renfred said as he stepped forward. He looked to Colton. “Shall you do the honor of swearing us, brother?”  
  
          “No,” Colton said. After a pause and one of his signature smirks, he shook his head and added, “I’m not the Lord of Duskendale.”  
  
          At that Renfred became intensely confused, his brow knitting. “What? But ... you’re home.”  
  
          Colton shook his head again. He started towards his brother. “I’m the Hand of the King, Renny. My place is at His Grace’s side. During my tenure as hand, _you_ will remain the acting lord of Duskendale.”  
  
          Renfred gave Colton a blank look, till he suddenly took him into another hug, embracing him tight. Colton laughed and patted his little brother’s back. It was a long embrace. When it finally ended and Colton wordlessly stepped away, Renfred turned to Lucas and Daenerys. “My king, my queen, House Rykker is yours,” he vowed, his voice wavering with emotion. “I swear fealty to you by the old gods and the new.”  
  
          _‘The old gods and the new.’_ Those words gave Lucas a chill down his back. It was such a common saying there in Westeros, the land where the newer Seven were followed by the southrons and the old tree gods were followed by the northmen. It had been so long since Lucas last heard those words. _I’m home,_ he thought to himself.  
  
          “I accept your pledge, my lord,” Lucas said, giving the young lord a reassuring smile. “Hold your head high. You’ve done a great thing for your family today.”  
  
          “I hate to sour this meeting just before it ends,” Colton began, “But, Renny, Warrek, where is my dear uncle Viktor?”  
  
          “King’s Landing,” answered Warrek. “There’d been talk that you’ve been seen by His Grace’s side in the Free Cities. When we heard word that His Grace’s fleet left Pentos, Viktor left for the capital. ‘A matter of business,’ he called it, but I know it true. He fled. He thinks Cersei will shelter him. He’s wrong. I’ve spent years in King’s Landing. I know Cersei. She cares for no one but her own brood. She’s more like to put his head on a spike simply for being from the same family as the rest of us, regardless of his loyalties.”  
  
          “I hope not,” Colton said. “His head is mine to take.”  
  
          “Will you really kill him?” asked Renfred, looking bewildered by the thought. Lucas wasn’t sure what Renfred thought of Colton killing their kin, betrayer or not.  
  
          Colton paused before answering that. “I’ll make him regret what he did.”  
  
          When Lucas glanced past the lords, he saw the sun nearing the horizon. “It’s time for us to go,” he said. “Expect frequent ravens, my lords. You are my only foothold in the mainland for the time being. Stay true to my lady wife and I, and you’ll all find yourselves on the right side of history. See to it that your men are prepared for war. There’ll be plenty of glory for everyone.”  
  
          After an exchange of farewells, handshakes, and bows, the two houses parted. Lucas took Daenerys’s hand and led her to Dreamwing, where she climbed atop her diamond dragon into her saddle. Sers Aerar, Stallan, and Lezero joined her while Lucas, Colton, Ser Nakarro, and Ser Joreus climbed atop Rhaegon. The Rykker lords and their men watched raptly as Lucas fastened himself in his saddle.  
  
          “Oh, and Renfred,” Colton said. “Shave that bloody thing off your lip till you grow something worthwhile, would you?”  
  
          “Piss off,” Renfred spat playfully.  
  
          “Your Grace,” Warrek called out. “We need the capital. When will we dethrone Cersei?”  
  
          “When it’s time,” Lucas promised.  
           
          “That cunt queen won’t know what fucked her,” Renfred boasted.  
  
          “Stay safe, Colton,” Warrek said.  
  
          “Have you seen this bloody beast?” Colton quipped, pointing to Rhaegon below him. “Worry for our enemies, not for me.”  
  
          Those were the last words spoken before the dragons took to the skies.  
  
          They soared just above the calm waters of Blackwater Bay, that which Lucas knew so well. He had sailed across it countless times with his father in his youth. They were so close now, so close to Driftmark, to the cities of Hull, Fallholt, Sungrasp, Windwater, and Wingchill. Hull was the largest of Driftmark’s cities, with the lion’s share of the isle’s shipyards, but Wingchill housed that which Lucas sought most of all: High Tide.  
  
          The revered Corlys Velaryon –the Sea Snake, as he was better known – had built High Tide with the treasures he collected in his journeys across all the known seas. But fate had left High Tide untouched for only a few short years after its building. It was burned by dragonfire during the Dance of Dragons, the Targaryen civil war that took place two centuries ago. Though the castle was originally built with three towers, the northmost one had been completely destroyed.  
  
          The thoughts of High Tide came one after the other, till a memory came to Lucas’s mind’s eye of another talk with his father that he’d never forgotten.  
  
_They were returning from a trip to Claw Isle, the home of House Celtigar. Kayla Celtigar, a highborn girl two years younger than Lucas, was accompanying them to stay at High Tide for a time, to know a castle other than her own. Lucas and his father Jacaerys rode on horseback side-by-side at the head of their party, with the rest of their entourage trailing behind. His father’s purple eyes had that look in them they so often had, as though he was always studying his surroundings, always pondering and planning. Never was there a moment where he seemed absent-minded.  
  
          They trotted east along the Sun Road, nearing Wingchill. High Tide could be seen in the distance behind Wingchill’s walls, growing larger and larger as they came nearer and nearer. It was a massive castle built of pale limestone, with a great wide gate, a sprawling curtain wall, a chapel, two tall towers, and a huge inner keep. There were a few vast black splotches that dragonfire had etched there centuries ago. Other parts were patches of dragonfire damage that had been re-stoned, much like an old wound would scar on a man’s flesh. But High Tide was magnificent despite its blemishes. Scarred or not, it stood tall and proud. It was unbroken and unyielding.  
  
          “Kayla Celtigar said High Tide’s scars are ugly,” Lucas complained to his father. Lucas had just ridden his horse to Kayla’s to ask for her thoughts on High Tide as it came into her view. When she gave her reply, Lucas had sourly spat back “Is not!” and rode off to return to his father’s side.  
  
          “The words of a little girl,” Jacaerys replied icily. “Think nothing of them. To a wise eye, High Tide’s scars show our resolve. They remind others who we are. What are our words, Lucas?”  
  
          “‘The Old, the True, the Brave,’” Lucas answered, swiftly and eagerly.  
  
          “Think on those words. Think on what they mean. ‘The Old, The True, the Brave.’ ‘The Old.’ We are of the blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Our family had its name in Valyria before the Andals crossed the narrow sea into Westeros. We’re older than the Lannisters, the Martells, the Starks, all of them. ‘The True.’ We are true. True to ourselves, to our allies, to our lieges. We’ve stayed true to the Targaryens ever since Aegon the Conqueror came to Westeros astride Balerion the Black Dread. Never have we betrayed them. ‘The Brave.’ Daemon Velaryon died for Aegon in the waters off Gulltown. Corlys Velaryon won the Stepstones for Prince Daemon. So if others mock High Tide, let them. If they think us the footstools of the Targaryens, let them. For we know who we are. We are ‘the Old, the True, the Brave.’”  
_  
          Rhaegon roaring snapped Lucas’s mind back to the here and now. They were above Hull, casting dragon-shaped shadows across the busy port city. The dragons hadn’t ascended higher into the skies, but rather were weaving effortlessly between Hull’s various towers. The dragons flew so close to the crowded streets below that Lucas could see all the faces looking up at him, could see the white in their eyes. He could see their awe, their fright, their dread. A few of the smallfolk screamed and fled, but most stood utterly still, like statues. Lucas thought to perhaps shout at them, but Rhaegon was flying far too fast for that.  
  
          Past Hull, Rhaegon and his siblings followed the wide Sun Road east towards Wingchill. True to its name, the road was drenched in sunlight, with no trees or towers nearby to disrupt that.  
  
          Soon enough, Wingchill was before them, its walls approaching fast. It was the eldest city on the isle, where the first Velaryons landed after leaving Valyria. Though it was older than King’s Landing, another arrival point of a transplanted Valyrian, it wasn’t even a third of the size of it. But Wingchill was a gorgeous city, famously dotted with tall, white towers that scraped the skies and seemed to glow at dawn and dusk. In the days of old, Velaryon dragons would often perch on those towers and rest. And perhaps they would again. The capital was much more lauded by others, but it was _this_ city, _Lucas’s_ city, that he treasured most.  
   
          And there along Wingchill’s eastern edge, overlooking the narrow sea, was High Tide. It was just as Lucas remembered it: massive, built of pale limestone, with a great wide gate, a sprawling curtain wall, a chapel, two tall towers, and a huge inner keep. The re-stoned patches and stained-black dragonfire splotches remained as well, and Lucas was just as grateful to see them again as he was everything else.  
  
          Lucas and Daenerys sent the dragons down hard into High Tide’s most spacious courtyard, that which lay between the inner keep and the chapel. Rhaegon roared mightily as they all descended. With a few big beats of their wings the dragons stalled their speed and set down their monstrous claws, landing on a wide, paved walkway between two vibrantly green lawns.  Lucas was swiftly out of his saddle and climbing down, yet the very moment he stood before the keep’s oak-and-iron doors, they burst open, armored men charging out. Lucas didn’t reach for his sword. The guards wore silvery suits of steel embossed with little emblems of sea green seahorses. Such a familiar sight, those seahorses.  
  
          Lucas held his arm out as his own knights and Colton all gathered behind him, pacifying them. He unfastened his helm, drew it off his head, and handed it to Ser Nakarro behind him.  
  
          The foremost guard jogged towards Lucas with his sword drawn, but upon seeing everything before him – the dragons, the knights, Lucas himself – he dropped his sword, letting it clang noisily on the pavement. He began hastily removing his helm, and when it fell from his scrabbling hands, it clanged on the ground just as his sword did.  
  
          The man’s brittle hair, messy from his helm, had gone gray, his icy-blue eyes had lost some of their clearness, and the prominent apple in his throat was now wrinkled ... but Lucas still knew the man. He was Corsen Sawler, Captain of High Tide’s Castle Guard. Lucas remembered him as a vigorous man of four-and-forty, with a head of thick, dark hair and a pair of sharp, watchful eyes ... but a man would change a lot over the course of sixteen years.  
  
          “Captain Corsen,” Lucas said. He could feel a giddy grin spreading over his lips.  
  
          “Lucas,” said Corsen, breathless and wide-eyed. “Gods be good, it’s really you. You ... you look so much like your father.”  
  
          “I know.”  
  
          Corsen shook his head, looking struck with disbelief. “We ... we’d heard rumors ... but thought it couldn’t be ... it’s been so long, we never thought ... but you ... it’s ...” He looked behind Lucas, to the watching dragons. “It’s all true.”  
  
          Lucas almost laughed at the dizzied reaction. The poor old captain’s head must’ve been spinning.  
  
          “Is she here? Rhaella’s girl? Did you bring her?”  
  
          Lucas looked to Ser Nakarro and gave him a nod.  
  
          Lucas’s Kingsguard parted. Ser Nakarro went back and ushered Lucas’s wife forward. The moment Daenerys was at Lucas’s side, Corsen fell to one knee and bowed his head. His fellow guards swiftly followed their captain’s example. “My king, my queen,” Corsen said. “We are yours.”  
  
          “Rise,” Lucas warmly bid, still grinning. The guardsmen obeyed and rose.  
  
          “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Daenerys greeted Corsen with friendly nod and smile. “My name is Daenerys Targaryen, though ... I suspect you may already know that.”  
  
          “I am no lord, Y’Grace,” Corsen corrected her amiably, as humble and polite as ever. “And I knew your name before you were born. I was with the men who saw your mother to her ship when they were all to set to sea. I had a moment alone with her. I had just become a grandfather, and your mother and I, we ... we spoke of little ones. She’d already chosen your name. She ... she was looking forward to meeting you.”  
  
          Daenerys’s smile left her. “I wish I could have.”  
  
          The apple in Corsen’s throat wobbled with a heavy gulp. “Fate was cruel to her, Y’Grace. And to you and your husband as well.”  
  
          “But that’s over now,” Lucas said as he took a step closer to Corsen. “We’re home.”  
  
          Corsen nodded, his resolve renewed. “Aye. The Seven are setting things right.”  
  
          “Where is my family, Captain Corsen?”  
  
          “They’re supping together, all of them. You timed your arrival well, Y’Grace.”  
  
          “Take me to them.”  
  
          Lucas looked from side to side as he walked through High Tide’s pale, milky halls. It was all as beautiful as he remembered it. Tall, arched windows welcomed in as much natural light as the sun would give. The square-patterned floors were so polished that they shined. Sea green banners bearing the Velaryon silver seahorse hung throughout. _These halls will be flaunting the thrice-headed dragon soon,_ Lucas thought to himself. House Velaryon had strength now like never before, and that needed to be properly displayed.  
  
          Lucas walked with Daenerys and Colton at each side, his Kingsguard knights at his rear, and Captain Corsen and the castle guards at his front. “Are they dining in the Great Hall?” Lucas asked.  
  
          “Well, no, Y’Grace,” Corsen answered. “The Great Hall is for feasts and the like, when they’re hosting many guests. Your family prefers the smaller dining chamber in the west wing for most meals.”  
  
          “Oh. Right. Of course.” Lucas should’ve known as much. He had certainly known that before; he had simply forgotten. “I’ve been gone for too long.” _  
_  
          Corsen looked at Lucas over his shoulder, smiling. “Yes you have.”  
  
          They turned another corner and started down the hall to the dining chamber. When they were upon the door, Corsen turned around. “Shall I?” he asked.  
  
          “No,” Lucas said. He looked to the others around him, to Colton and the Kingsguard. “Wait here, all of you. I want to be alone for this.” He looked to Daenerys, who was watching him. “You too.”  
  
          Daenerys nodded, then leaned up onto her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss, touching his face with one soft hand. “Be calm,” she whispered sweetly, her lips no further than an inch from his. It was so quiet a whisper that Lucas was sure no other ears but his own heard her.  
  
          A little sigh left Lucas. He had grown nervous, and needed that. He cleared his throat and went to the door. “Come in when I summon you, no sooner,” he instructed everyone. With that, he raised his arm, grabbed the door handle, pulled, and stepped forward.  
  
          Once inside, Lucas shut the door. In front of him, the long dining table was crowded. Chatter filled the chamber. Silver mirrors behind the wall torches lit the space brightly, as the windows on the west wall would not give enough light on their own. The linen table runner was that familiar sea green, and embroidered with images of crashing waves and sailing ships. The table was decked with countless plates of food, with no shortage of game, fowl, fish, fruit, or vegetables. Of those seated at the table, Lucas recognized many of their faces, but so too were there many faces that he did not. Most notably, he had never seen the little sandy-haired boy sitting at the table’s head.  
  
          Lucas took another step forward. One pair of eyes found him, and then their lips stilled. Then he took another step, and was noticed by another. Every step Lucas took, more bodies twisted around, more heads turned, more eyes spotted him, and more voices hushed. Silence swept through the chamber, till the clinking of Lucas’s steel and the sound of his sabatons were all to be heard.  
  
          When Lucas stood at the end of the table, opposite from the little sandy-haired boy, he stopped. “I’m home,” he said.  
  
          Silence followed. For a moment, Lucas feared none would speak.  
  
          But then came the screeching of a chair as it was pushed from the table. A tiny old woman with a slight hunch to her back came shambling over. She had long, fine, white hair, cloudy, purple eyes, and a long, wrinkled face. Warming her old bones was a heavy gown of cotton and linen. Lucas knew the old woman’s face, and he knew it well. She was Jeanenya Velaryon, Lucas’s great-grandmother, now a wizened woman of eight-and-eighty, the eldest member of their house. In Lucas’s youth, Jeanenya had only ever been sweet with him. She was one person he could always go to for a kindness, even when all others were scolding him. She had lost some of her vision and gone near-sighted before Lucas was born, and though she possessed eyeglasses, she disliked them, and would use them only for reading. That was before Lucas left. He knew not how poor her vision was now.  
  
          Jeanenya approached cautiously, as though she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Lucas,” she said. “Lucas, sweet boy, is it really you?”  
  
          “Grandmother Jeany,” Lucas greeted her tenderly. “It is.”  
  
          As she drew nearer, Jeanenya’s wrinkled face lit up with joy. She closed the rest of the distance with arms outstretched, and when she was upon Lucas, she took his cheeks in each gaunt hand. “But you’re a boy no longer. Gods be good, you look _just like_ _Jacaerys.”_  
  
          “I know.”  
  
          “I’d feared I wouldn’t live to see the day you came home.”  
  
          “I feared the same for myself,” Lucas said. “Your teeth look better than I remember,” he quipped. He had noticed how white and spotless they were.  
  
          Jeanenya gave him a big grin with her thin lips, to show off her teeth. “They’re ivory,” she said. “Hurt like all the seven hells to have the old rotten ones out, but I’ve such a pretty smile now, haven’t I?”  
  
          Lucas laughed. “You certainly do.”  
  
          Many other chairs then screeched against the floor, almost all at once. The rest of Lucas’s family approached, and they approached much faster than Jeanenya had. In a blink of an eye, Lucas was surrounded, and for once not by cold armor and swords, but by warm smiles and greetings. There were expressions of relief, jokes, and laughter as Lucas shook hands with the lords and kissed the hands of the ladies, both those he knew and the new arrivals that he did not.  
  
          Of the faces before him, Lucas knew six. His only surviving granduncle, the always stern Maevar Velaryon, was a man of six-and-sixty who was exceptionally robust for his age, burly and big-jawed. A much different sight was Maevar’s elder son, the belly laughing Baegon, fat and moon-faced, a man of eight-and-forty, who was even rounder and more jowly than Lucas remembered. Maevar’s second son, Kartys, was tall and strong, much like his father, and was forty years of age. All three showed their Velaryon blood of Old Valyria in their silver hair and purple eyes. Maevar’s and Baegon’s wives, Juliana and Elize, were both Celtigars. Juliana, who still stood as thin and graceful as ever, was going gray, losing the red in her once-fiery hair one inch at a time. Elize, who still clearly shared her large husband’s appetite, being nearly as round as him, had not yet lost any of the red in her very long hair. Baegon’s elder son, Presten, now a young man of one-and-twenty, had a build less like his round father and more like his strong grandfather. He had the Valyrian purple eyes but the Celtigar red hair. Standing among all his kin, Lucas was reminded of that fact he was one of the few sons of his family without the physical traits of the dragon blood.  
  
          So too were there six faces that Lucas had not yet known. High Tide’s new maester, whose name Lucas learned from him was Alavin, was a soft-spoken man of three-and-thirty with tightly-curling brown hair and dewy brown eyes. He seemed overly timid, but Maevar was swift to say that “what he lacks in voice, he has in mind.” Maevar’s youngest child, a daughter, Vaenya, tall for her age and slenderly shaped, was another new face, and a very pretty one. She was a maiden of fifteen. Baegon’s younger son, Jaeral, was a stout young man, also fifteen. Kartys’s wife Dyanne, a brown-haired Rosby, and Presten’s wife Kathlyn, a black-haired Rykker, had also both arrived in the time Lucas had been gone, as had Kartys’s and Dyanne’s first babe, Rila. Yet the one new face that had still not greeted Lucas was that of High Tide’s current little lord.  
  
          The boy was shy and slow to approach, but when he finally did, the others parted, giving him and Lucas space to face each other. Lucas had never met the boy, but he knew who he was. He did not look much like his father, not yet. Like Lucas, the boy showed nothing of his dragon blood. His hair was a sandy-blonde, his eyes a deep blue. The white tunic he wore bore a fresh dark stain that Lucas had to assume was from beef stew.  
  
          As Lord Varys had explained in a letter, during Lucas’s absence, his uncle Montaerys had no choice but to have his first marriage annulled when no heir was given to him. His second wife, a Sunglass, gave him a son, and then gave that son his father’s name. The mother then died to a fever shortly after giving birth. The boy had been called ‘Monty’ within their family, and still was, even though the senior Montaerys was now dead. _He already knows the loss I do,_ Lucas thought somberly as he looked down at the boy. _He’s without his parents at an even younger age than I was.  
_  
          Monty gazed upon Lucas with a blank but inquisitive look. “Father told me my cousin lived across the narrow sea,” he said in that matter-of-fact way that only children did.  
  
          Lucas gave Monty a friendly smile. “I did. But now I’ve returned.”  
  
          Monty tilted his head. “Does that mean you’re the Lord of Driftmark now?”  
  
          Lucas tilted his head too. “Would that displease you?”  
  
          “No. I don’t want to be the Lord. Lords have so many duties, and they’re all so boring. I want to be a knight.”  
  
          Lucas crouched down, so that he was eye level with his little cousin. He put a hand on his shoulder. “Tell you what, when you’re of age, when you’re big and strong, I’ll make you a knight. How’s that sound?”  
  
          Monty’s face lit up. “Would you really?”  
  
          “I would.”  
  
          “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Monty cried out as he bounced up and down. “You’re the best cousin ever!”  
  
          “Only other knights can make a knight,” noted Lucas’s gruff granduncle Maevar. When Lucas looked to him, he saw a subtle glint within Maevar’s purple eyes. “Or a king.”  
  
          _He wants to know what I am now,_ Lucas realized. _They all do._  
  
          Lucas stood straight. He looked around himself, to all his family. “I have returned as more than your lord. And I have brought more than myself.” Lucas glanced over his shoulder, to the door from whence he entered. “Come,” he hollered.  
  
          The door came open, and in poured Lucas’s Kingsguard, marching forward with Ser Nakarro and Ser Joreus leading the way. Plate and mail clinked and rattled as they approached.  
  
          “These Kingsguard knights are only five of the twenty thousand men of my Free Legion,” Lucas explained when his knights were upon him. “All twenty thousand have sailed here, aboard two hundred and fifty ships. But you should know, I didn’t make myself king.” Lucas turned around, facing the Sers Nakarro and Joreus. “She did.”  
  
          Lucas gave the knights a nod. They parted, revealing that which they guarded: their queen.  
  
          Daenerys held her hands nervously at her waist, but otherwise stood straight and proper. Her hair was somewhat disheveled from the flight, but she’d been keen enough to pretty it up as best she could while Lucas greeted his family. Lucas held out a hand towards her, and she accepted it. She came closer to Lucas, standing at his side. “I present to you all Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of Aerys and Rhaella, sister of Rhaegar and Viserys, and ... my wife. To those who saw Rhaella when my father brought her through here, this is the babe she carried in her belly. A storm separated us when we fled Westeros, but the Seven has seen us reunited. We wedded two years ago. By birthright, she is your queen.”  
  
          Maevar was the first to kneel and bow his head, as dutiful as a soldier. “Your Grace. It’s an honor.”  
  
          The others followed Maevar’s example, one after the other, till all his family were kneeling. Lucas gave Daenerys a while to tell them to rise. When he realized that she had forgotten it was required of her, he decided to spare his family from an eternity of kneeling. “Rise,” he bid.  
  
          “It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Daenerys said as they rose, wearing a polite smile. “I ... look forward to knowing you all as family.”  
  
          Jeanenya approached. She grasped at Daenerys, touching her everywhere, her soft hands, her slender waist, her smooth face. She touched her as though she saw only through her fingers, which might’ve been close to the truth. “Oh, such a _beauty,”_ she said in a sigh. “You Targaryen women are always so gorgeous. Your mother was a beauty as well, Your Grace. And such a kind soul too. Have you any little ones yourself yet? Surely you must.”  
  
          “We do,” Daenerys affirmed, still smiling.  
  
          “Two,” Lucas said. “Jacaerys and Aelyssa. Jace is seventeen months old. Aly was born not even a week ago.”  
  
          “Oh, wonderful! Not even a week ago, you say? You look better than I always did a week after a birth.”  
  
          “Lord Colton,” Maevar greeted him curtly. “It’s good to see you at His Grace’s side.”  
  
          Colton came closer. “My brother here seemed to be having so much fun in exile, so I thought, why not join him? Bests giving my head to Lord Randyll.”  
  
          “I’ve made Colton my Hand of the King,” Lucas explained. “There is no man I trust more. And I’ve already spoken to his brother, Lord Renfred. He has sworn House Rykker to me.”  
  
          “You’ve already seen Renny?” Colton’s cousin Kathlyn spoke up. She had been standing half-behind her husband Presten, but came forward at the mention of Renfred.  
  
          “I have. It was the sweetest reunion, everyone present shed a tear,” Colton japed, making a funny face. With the jest done, he resumed his serious tone. “He’s with us. Every Rykker sword is with our rightful king and queen. Let it be remembered that House Rykker was the first to swear loyalty to our new dynasty.”  
  
          “It’s said your army is made of former slaves from the Free Cities,” Baegon’s stout younger son Jaeral said, sounding excited.  
  
          Lucas nodded. “The Slave Cities, they should’ve been called. And what they say is true. I freed all my legionnaires. I struck the shackles from their wrists and put swords in their hands. I gave them freedom, and in return, they gave me their loyalty. They’re manning my fleet. They should be on the horizon by now. The Lord-Commander of my Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy, is with them, guarding Jace and Aly.”  
  
          “It’s said you’ve three dragons as well,” Jaeral added. “We heard a roar ... are they real? Did you bring them?”  
  
          “I’ll let you see for yourself soon. But first ...” Lucas strode past Jaeral and the others, towards the table. At the far side of the table from Lucas, in the seat beside where Monty had sat, remained a single man who never rose with all the others. “Aurane,” Lucas called out. “Why have you not come over to greet me?”  
  
          Everyone fell quiet. The chamber silenced.  
  
          For a long moment, Aurane remained where he was. Lucas gazed upon his face, reacquainting himself with the sight of it. Aurane was a man on the cusp of middle age, nine-and-thirty, of the same fit frame and tall height of his late half-brothers. He wore a silver vest over a turqouise shirt with long, baggy sleeves. A matching scarf of turquoise silk was swirled around his collar. His was a somewhat narrow face, with a slender nose and cleft chin. He had the gray-green eyes of his smallfolk mother, but his shoulder-length hair and well-groomed stubble were both a steely silver. He was very much a Velaryon.  
  
          Lucas’s grandfather had sired three sons. Two with his lady wife, trueborn: Jacaerys and Montaerys Velaryon. But the third was sired much later, with a smallfolk woman, baseborn: Aurane Waters. The Bastard of Driftmark. His dutiful father had brought him into the family fray following his birth. Jacaerys and Montaerys did their best to treat him like a brother, just as their mother did her best to treat him like a son. As to how well any of them did in that, Lucas could not say. When grown, Aurane proved himself to be a masterful sailor and in possession of a silver tongue, tactful, cunning, clever ... and above all, opportunistic.  
  
          At last, Aurane rose from his chair, his motion prolonged and deliberate. “Do forgive me, nephew, but I had this sneaking suspicion that you would not take kindly to the sight of me,” he said slowly and smoothly, a convincing smile upon his face.  
  
          Lucas gave a convincing smile of his own, mirroring his bastard uncle’s. “And why is that?” he asked as he went around the table, approaching Aurane. “Could it be because you are Cersei’s master of ships?”  
  
          Aurane had no reply for that. He crept the opposite way around the table, away from Lucas and closer to the others, to the dining chamber’s only door.  
  
          “What is it that brings you home, uncle?” Lucas asked. In the corner of his eye, he saw Colton whisper something to Ser Nakarro.  
  
          Aurane’s smile faltered for a fleeting instant, like a candleflame flickering. “I visit home often. Little Monty is so young, he often needs help in ruling.”  
  
          Lucas’s smile did more than falter. He abandoned it entirely. He would wear that mask no longer. “You mean, needs help in steering our interests towards the Lannisters.”  
  
          Aurane looked around for a moment, as though searching for something. It seemed he did not find it. “Yes, I am Cersei’s master of ships,” he said tersely as he looked to Lucas again. “The offer was made to me, and I accepted. As we all know, men of House Velaryon have held the office for many years. It’s only right I keep that legacy alive.”  
  
          Lucas nodded slowly. “That’s true enough. But I find your appointment to that office most curious, uncle. When the Usurper’s brother learned that Cersei’s brood were illborn, he called his bannermen to depose her. This house had no choice but to answer the call. Our men burned for the Usurper’s brother on the Blackwater Rush. You were there, and were captured by the Lannisters, but you bent the knee and were pardoned. Tell me, how exactly does one go from Cersei’s captive to her master of ships?”  
  
          Still Aurane smiled. “We held no love for Stannis. That was known to all. We were all glad to be rid of him when someone cut him down in the north. After Blackwater, the Lannisters offered pardons to all who would kneel to Joffrey. So, I knelt.”  
  
          “A rare show of mercy from them,” Lucas mused. “But that doesn’t exactly explain how you were offered the position of master of ships.”  
  
          “Cersei knows Velaryons are born sailors ... and I made a good first impression.”  
  
          “You mean, she fancies you. Don’t play around it. I’ve a friend in the capital, and they tell me a great deal. Cersei has taken a liking to you, and you’ve taken a liking to that place on her small council. I wonder, have you warmed her bed yet? I hear she prefers own her kin there. Have you lay between her and the Kingslayer?”  
  
          That soured Aurane at last. His smile twisted till it threatened a scowl. “You want me to beg forgiveness, is that it? I won’t. I’ll not apologize for bringing this family into the queen’s favor.”  
  
          Lucas was whip-quick to counter that. _“Daenerys_ is your queen now. And you’ve done _nothing_ for this family. You act for yourself, for your own gain. You always have.” Lucas looked to the others. “You should all know one of the last things my father ever told me,” he began as he looked them all in their eyes one at a time. “He said, ‘Do not trust Aurane. Keep him at arm’s length. I tried to make him my brother, but he always went his own way. His loyalties are not ours. His are to himself.’ My father told me of the private talk he had with Montaerys and Aurane when he brought Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys to Driftmark. King’s Landing had fallen, and Aerys and Rhaegar were dead. Jacaerys and Montaerys agreed to continuously move the queen and prince east as needed if the Baratheons pursued, but Aurane had a different suggestion. He said to _give_ our prince and pregnant queen to the Baratheons. He would’ve betrayed the family we’ve been sworn to for three centuries. He would’ve had my wife killed in the womb. Let it be known, what Aurane suggested was _high treason,_ and it will be treated as such. But my father was wrong about one thing. Aurane is not to be kept away. Traitors are not to be sent off. They are to be punished.” Lucas looked to Aurane again. “Captain Corsen, seize him.”  
  
          It was a test of loyalty, and Captain Corsen did not fail it. He and his men obeyed without question, rushing forward and grabbing each of Aurane’s arms. Aurane thrashed about wildly once they’d seized him. “Unhand me!” he yelled. “I am a member of the queen’s small council! I command you to unhand me!”  
  
          They didn’t listen.  
  
          “Get him on his knees,” Lucas said as he approached. “He will kneel.”  
  
          Captain Corsen and his guards kicked hard at Aurane’s shins, taking his legs out from under him, dropping him to his knees. Aurane fell with a cry of pain, his scowl darkening.  
  
          “What say you, Aurane? Do you deny your crime?” Lucas asked.  
  
          Aurane silently glowered at Lucas for a moment, looking him in his eyes. _He’s looking to see if lying might spare him,_ Lucas knew. Aurane soon realized that it wouldn’t. He twisted around to face their family. “The war was lost!” he shouted at them. “Far as I knew, the rebels would’ve killed us all! I was trying to _save us!”  
_  
          “You were trying to save yourself. Tell it true, uncle, for you’ll not fool me. You were then as you’ve always been: a snake. And dragons do not cohort with snakes.”  
  
          “This is madness!” Aurane looked wildly upon all the others, to Jeanenya, to Maevar, to Baegon, to Kartys, to Presten, to Jaerar, to Vaenya, to Monty, to Juliana, to Elize, to Dyanne, to Kathlyn, to every face he had once known to be his family. “Lucas has been gone for years! He is a stranger to us!”  
  
          “I am no stranger,” Lucas said coolly with a slow shake of his head. “This is _my_ castle. This is _my_ family. A hundred years away wouldn’t change that.” Lucas looked to his family, to all the faces Aurane had. “You’ve all submitted to Cersei because you had no choice. I understand. But that’s over. House Velaryon has a new destiny, and I’m going to lead us to it. Starting here.” Lucas turned back to Aurane. “Aurane Waters, Bastard of Driftmark,” he began, his voice booming. “For the crime of high treason, I find you guilty, and sentence you to death.”  
  
          “I demand a trial by combat!” Aurane shouted.  
  
          Maevar stormed forward and spat on the floor before Aurane. “A bastard has no right to trial by combat,” he growled. He held no loyalty or fondness for Aurane, Lucas could see. “And your king has already pronounced your verdict.”  
  
          “No, he’ll have his trial,” Lucas said. “I want the people of Driftmark to see what happens to our enemies.”  
  
          “I name Ser Robert Strong as my champion,” Aurane proclaimed.  
  
          Lucas cocked an eyebrow, puzzled. He’d made himself well-versed in Westeros’s current political climate in preparation for his return, yet that was a name he did not know. “And who might that be?”  
  
          “A knight of Cersei’s Queensguard.”  
  
          Lucas shook his head sourly. “The trial is now. You’ll have a champion from here in Driftmark, or none at all.” Lucas looked over his shoulder. “Will any here champion the Bastard of Driftmark?” His question was met with stillness and silence. “No?” Lucas tsked. “Such a surprise. You’ll fight your own trial, bastard. Come now. Unlike you, I do have a champion. Let’s go meet him. Captain Corsen, send servants to toll the Silver Tower’s bell. Summon the smallfolk. I’ve a show for them.”  
  
          Outside, the sun was setting, leaving the skies as colorful layers of gold, blue, and pink. The air had turned cold, and a sudden windiness brought bitter chills.  
  
          Lucas stood at the head of High Tide’s front steps, those that which were so wide that a thousand men could’ve ascended it at once. Behind Lucas, the bell in the Silver Tower tolled, as it had been for half an hour. Ahead of him, an uncountable and still growing crowd of smallfolk swelled the long, wide road between High Tide and Wingchill’s Diamond Quarter. At the base of the steps ahead of the smallfolk, a thick line of High Tide castle guards kept any from ascending. Within the crowd were men, women, girls, boys, old, young, wealthy, poor. Many were visibly tired, looking eager for the coming nightfall. Among them, some young babes were crying, but that was all the noise from the crowd to be heard. The rest of them were quiet. Many of them had been gossiping in whispers at first, but that had stopped once Lucas came forward. At Lucas’s left was Daenerys, holding his hand. At Lucas’s right was Aurane on his knees, now shackled and gagged. All around Lucas stood his Kingsguard knights, encircling him, positioned between him and the rest of his family. And to right of Aurane, importantly, was a large open space, where none stood.  
  
          Lucas began. “I’ve some questions for you all,” he shouted as he looked over the crowd. “Answer honest. How many of you remember the peace and prosperity of the years under Targaryen rule? How many of you remember the _calmness_ of it?”  
  
          “Aye,” many voices called out, raising a hand or nodding. Nearly every man and woman that looked older than thirty affirmed him.  
  
          “Now how many of you despise the endless warring our land has fallen into? How many of you despise the _lechery_ and _treachery?”_  
  
          “Aye,” said more voices, with more raised hands and nods.  
  
          Now was Daenerys’s turn. “I am Daenerys Targaryen,” she told the crowd. “Daughter of Aerys and Rhaella. By birthright, I am your queen. Beside me is my husband, Lucas Velaryon, son of Jacaerys and Maraya. By marriage, he is your king. In the Free Cities they call me the Mother of Dragons. Soon you will—”  
  
          —The crowd utterly _erupted_ into cheers, much sooner than Lucas had anticipated. Daenerys blinked a few times, flustered by the surprise. Lucas held his free hand high, calling for silence. It took a while, but soon the crowd was nearly as quiet as it had been before.  
  
          “Soon you will see why, if you haven’t already,” Daenerys finished.  
  
          Lucas gestured over Aurane. “The man at my feet is Aurane Waters, Bastard of Driftmark. Sixteen years ago, when my father Lord Jacaerys brought Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys to Driftmark, fleeing from the Usurper and his dogs, Aurane made the suggestion to hand the queen and prince over to the rebels. He would’ve handed our prince and pregnant queen to those that would’ve murdered them, just as they murdered Elia Martell and her babes. He would’ve had us betray the Targaryens to serve the Lannisters and Baratheons, just as he serves Cersei Lannister now. What my bastard uncle does not realize is that the Lannisters are our _enemies._ And if he hasn’t learned that by now, he never will.”  
  
          “Kill him!” shouted a voice from the crowd.  
  
          “Take his head!” shouted another.  
  
          The eagerness surprised Lucas. He and Daenerys had repeatedly rehearsed together what they would tell the people of Wingchill, and this eagerness was not the reaction he’d expected. But perhaps it should’ve been. Of the strife from all these wars, no one had suffered more than the smallfolk. For it was their husbands, sons, nephews, and uncles who had been sent off to die for a war that would only be lost. They wanted someone punished for that. They would not be disappointed. Lucas would show them a punishment more spectacular than they’d ever seen.  
  
          Lucas looked to Daenerys and gave her a nod. She nodded back, and then looked to the skies. “Rhaegon! Dreamwing! Skyshark!” she shouted.  
  
          A silent moment passed. Then came the roars.  
  
          Winged shadows swept over the crowd as the dragons appeared. As in Hull, some of the smallfolk screamed, and some ran, but most remained still as they gazed skyward. There were “Oohs,” and “Ahs,” as Dreamwing and Skyshark circled above the crowd, the diamond dragon quiet, the sapphire dragon roaring endlessly. Knowing and finding where Lucas desired him, Rhaegon began his descent, beating his wings till he came to an earth-rumbling landing in the open space next to the shackled and gagged Aurane.  
  
          “Do not fear the dragons,” Daenerys shouted at the crowd. “They will not harm you if can be helped. They harm only our enemies.”  
  
          Lucas heard Aurane mumble something muffled by his gag. _“Mother have mercy,”_ it sounded like. He was gazing upon Rhaegon, who returned his gaze, staring him down with his golden eyes. _They both know what’s to come,_ Lucas thought.  
  
          “Aurane Waters is a traitor to our house,” Lucas went on. “For his treason against my wife’s family, and for his service to Cersei, I have sentenced him to death. He asked for trial by combat, and I have granted it. He has no champion ... but I do.” Lucas released Daenerys’s hand and turned around, away from the crowd. “Make way, make way,” he commanded, shooing away those around him, his knights and his family. Daenerys began to start off as well, but Lucas grabbed her arm and kept her put. “Not you, my love,” he whispered to her. “It’s important we stand together here. Let all see us as one.” Too often had Daenerys been quick to step aside to let Lucas do all the orchestrating. That was alright before, in the Free Cities, but not here, not in the Seven Kingdoms. _She_ was the Targaryen, the blood, the heir. They were nothing here without her.  
  
          Daenerys nodded.  
  
          Soon a large space was created around Lucas, Daenerys, Aurane and Rhaegon. “Captain Corsen,” Lucas called out, summoning him. “And you there,” Lucas said as he eyed a young castle guard whose name he did not yet know. “Approach, both of you.” They obeyed. “What’s your name?” Lucas asked the young guard.  
  
          “J-Jaden, m’lor—Y’Grace.”  
  
          Lucas pointed at Jaden’s sheathed steel. “Are you fond of that sword?”  
  
          “No, Y’Grace. It’s just an old sword.”  
  
          “Good.” Lucas reached forward and drew Jaden’s sword from his scabbard. He rotated the sword in his gauntlet, so that he held it by the blade, and then held it out to Corsen. “Give Aurane this sword, unshackle him, and get away.”  
  
          Corsen nodded and went to Aurane. Jaden stepped back and returned to where he’d stood before, alongside his fellows.  
  
          Lucas brought Daenerys with him as he backed far, far away. He turned and looked to his family, who all stood together. They were all watching; none were looking away. Lucas looked to Daenerys, who noticed his eyes upon her and met them. “You give Rhaegon the command,” Lucas told her.  
  
          “He’s your bondmate,” Daenerys objected.  
  
          “You’re the Targaryen. They need to see you do it. Give the command.”  
  
          Daenerys looked ahead. Lucas did the same. Corsen had just dropped the sword in front of Aurane, who looked upon it with bulging eyes. Corsen then yanked out his gag and set to unlocking his shackles.  
  
          “Rhaegon,” Daenerys called out. The ruby dragon’s eyes flicked over to hers for just an instant before returning to the prey before him.  
  
          Corsen had since hurried away, and Aurane had grabbed the sword. At Daenerys’s call, Aurane whipped around, raised his sword, and charged her.  
  
          “Dracarys!” Daenerys shouted.  
  
          Rhaegon’s head cocked back, then sprung. As his maw opened, a huge gout of scarlet flames rushed forward. Aurane managed no more than a few paces before the rushing flames engulfed him, his silhouette disappearing in the red inferno. He screamed, but only for a moment. A wave of heat rushed upon Lucas’s face.  
  
          When Rhaegon’s maw finally closed, smoke hissed from his flaring nostrils. The dragonfire soon dissipated, the red flames flickering away. Where Aurane once stood remained only a burnt, pitch-black rod of melting steel and a vast, scorched patch of stone. _Another proud scar for the castle to bear,_ Lucas thought. _Let the other lords have their spiked heads. These dragonfire shadows are a better warning.  
_  
          Lucas went to the edge of the topmost step and looked over the crowd of smallfolk once more. “Let this be a lesson to all,” Lucas shouted. “The reign of the dragon has returned. Now sleep well tonight, my people. For the morrow is a new day, with a new dawn.”  
  
          Seeking to wind down from all the chaos of the day, Lucas spent the waning hours of the evening lounging lazily with Daenerys in High Tide’s lord’s chamber. Monty had been hesitant to relinquish his abode, but when Lucas reminded him that a lord’s chamber was for the castle’s lord and told him he would be assigned a chamber worthy of a knight, he hesitated no more.  
  
          With his fleet having arrived, men of the Free Legion filed in and out of the bedchamber, swiftly but carefully carrying Lucas’s and Daenerys’s belongings into their new home, one of which was the grand tapestry that depicted Corlys Velaryon sailing through the Stepstones. Lucas had exited his armor, and Daenerys her gown of mail. Jace and Aly were soon reunited with their parents. Jace sprinted to Lucas upon seeing him, and was promptly picked up and taken into a firm hug. Aly was squalling, but was easily comforted by suckling a meal from her mother’s breast.  
  
          In the waning hours of the evening, Lucas arranged for the majority of High Tide’s castle guards to be removed from their posts and be replaced by legionnaires. But those guards would not be without work. They would become the beginnings of Lucas’s Westerosi army.  
  
          Lucas enjoyed a spiced Dornish wine on a couch as he waited for the moving to be finished. Daenerys enjoyed the wine with him, a rarity. Clare had scared her off it for the most part, when she shared with her a motherly warning that had been passed down in her family, that ‘drunken, unsightly women’ bear ‘drunken, unsightly babes.’  
  
          When night finally fell, Lucas and Daenerys tucked in Jace and Aly in their new bedchambers that neighbored their mother’s and father’s own. The chambers had been Maevar’s and Baegon’s, but they vacated them at Lucas’s command, so that the prince and princess could sleep nearer to their parents. The ever-dutiful Maevar had been quick to agree, but Baegon had agreed slowly and begrudgingly. Lucas would’ve insisted either way. He was not about to have his children sleep far from him.  
  
          It was a roomy bedchamber, even larger than their bedchamber in the manse had been. Carpets and tapestries patterned with ships and dragons lined the floors and walls. The colors black, blue, and white dominated throughout. There was a massive bed, a pair of desks, four wardrobes, a buffet, a table that could seat at least two, three armchairs facing each other, a couch, and a double hearth with fires already stoked. There were six windows side-by-side on the eastern wall, all in perfect position to let light pour in when the sun greeted the horizon each morning.  
  
          Ser Barristan was standing guard outside the door, alongside Ser Nakarro. Ser Aerar guarded Jace’s chamber, and Ser Lezero Aly’s. Ser Joreus and Ser Stallan were permitted to rest. Their shifts would come later.  
  
          Daenerys stood by the bed, touching first the teal, silk curtain that hung from one of the bedposts and then the bed’s black furs, which seemed to be from Kingswood bears. She had dressed down into a sheer, silver nightgown that betrayed her nipples and delightfully hugged her arse. Lucas was admiring the sight of her when she spoke. “It feels queer, sleeping where a boy just had.”  
  
          Lucas stood by his desk, returning his quill and inkwell to their compartment. He was undressed as well, wearing only his linen breeches. He had just finished penning two letters that he gave to Ser Barristan to be sent by raven immediately, the latter of which was to be copied and re-addressed by Maester Alavin before mailing. “The servants already changed the sheets and furs for us,” Lucas said with a shrug. “What, would you prefer Dreamwing burn the whole bloody thing and have a craftsman make us a new one?” he jested.  
  
          “Maybe.”  
  
          Lucas laughed. “I was a boy once, you know.”  
  
          Daenerys gave him a humorously irked look. “You didn’t bed me while you were one.”  
  
          “No,” Lucas conceded. He approached Daenerys till he stood beside her. “I’ll have the servants throw it out and send an order to a craftsman. We’ll have a new one in here before next night. Alright?”  
  
          Daenerys nodded, giving a little smile. “Alright.”  
  
          Lucas’s hands went to his wife’s hips. They were delightfully warm to the touch, as always. Never would Lucas suffer a cold night, not when he could hold that body close. Lucas leaned into Daenerys, tilting his head. Her lips were anticipating his, as she was quick to accept and return his kiss, her mouth matching the motion of his. Her lips were plump, soft, and moist, a pleasure to capture and release again and again. Their kiss filled the chamber with the sounds of gently smacking lips.  
  
          Daenerys’s mouth soon opened wider, inviting Lucas’s tongue to enter it. It was an invite he could not decline. He felt heat and slickness as his tongue wrestled down hers, mounting it much like he often mounted her whole, soft form. The sounds of smacking lips were then joined by breathy moans, Lucas’s low and gratified, Daenerys’s high and girlish.  
  
          Unable to resist, Lucas’s hands left Daenerys’s hips and snuck around her. Each took a squeezing handful of her round arse. Then, abruptly, he hiked up the back of her nightgown and slithered his hands down her underskirt, so that he could feel her flesh as he fondled her, with no cloth in between. As Lucas kneaded Daenerys’s soft arse in his hands, he was pulled back in forth in his mind between what his tongue and lips and felt and that which his hands did.  
  
          Motherhood had made Daenerys just a dash thicker than when she was a maiden. It wasn’t much, only just enough to be noticeable ... and Lucas loved it. Her breasts were a little larger, her arse a little fuller. But her figure was still slim, her waist still slender, and the wet heat of that pink slit between her legs was still the same pleasure it had always been. Yet it was not her cunt that was on Lucas’s mind.  
  
          Perhaps it was the Dornish wine he’d been enjoying that was swaying him, but never had Lucas lusted for Daenerys’s arse as much as he did then. Before, it was a curiosity, a want. Now, it was a need. His right hand ceased fondling her cheeks, so that his forefinger could encircle her arsehole. It was hot to the touch.  
  
          Lucas pulled his head away. When Daenerys realized his lips weren’t immediately returning, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. The violet of her eyes shined in the warm light of the hearths’ fire. “Are we going to?” she asked.  
  
          “Yes. And we’re going to do something new.” It would be at least another day before Lucas would treat himself to that slit of pink pleasure between his wife’s legs ... but there was another hole down there.  
  
          Lucas had told himself he would save this experiment for a special occasion. He was home now. After more than a decade away, he was back where he was born, where he belonged. What more special of an occasion could there ever be?  
  
          Lucas smirked again. “I’m going to fuck you in the arse,” he told her, seeing no need to honey his words.  
  
          “Alright,” Daenerys said softly, utterly willing, violet eyes still innocently shining.  
  
          “Are you nervous?”  
  
          Daenerys smiled. “No,” she said, shaking her head.  
  
          “Wait here.” Lucas hurried to the door, grabbed the handle, and opened it a crack, just enough to peek his head through. The first knight’s face he saw was Ser Nakarro’s. “Ser Nakarro,” he said.  
  
          The knight turned. “Yes, Your Grace?”  
  
          “Fetch a vial of olive oil.”  
  
          “As you command.”  
  
          With that set in motion, Lucas shut the door and returned to Daenerys.  
  
          He took her to their couch, where he set upon removing her nightgown. She raised her arms, allowing him to pull it off over her head. Once it was gone, the only cloth left on her was her underskirt, which Lucas eyed but did not yet remove. The underskirt was taut against Daenerys’s crotch, allowing the shape of her cunt’s mound to be seen. So puffy and swollen, that mound. Fancying the sight of that, Lucas grabbed the waistband of her underskirt and pulled up on it, wedging it even tauter. Daenerys giggled. The added tautness created a crease where her slim inner slit was tucked away. It was easy to see why her cunt always gripped Lucas’s cock so snug. And Lucas suspected that her arsehole would grip him even snugger.  
  
          But first, an appetizer.  
  
          Lucas sat at the center of the couch, reclined, and relaxed, entwining his hands behind his head. Not needing direction, Daenerys kneeled before him and tugged at his trousers, pulling them down and off his feet. Lucas’s cock sprang out and stood tall, already fully erect. Daenerys raised her arms and brought her hands, not to Lucas’s erection, but to his ballocks. She fondled them in her small, soft hands, caressing them ever so gently, mindful of how sensitive they were. Her hands remained there as she licked her lips, moistening them. Daenerys knew what her husband preferred on his cock, and it wasn’t her hands.  
  
          Daenerys lowered her head towards Lucas’s cock’s crown, her plump lips slightly parted. As she closed the distance, her hot breath became detectable on Lucas’s manhood. Daenerys opened her mouth wider, preparing for it. Closer and closer she came, till, at last, Lucas’s cock went inside her maw, disappearing inch by inch. Once a good portion of his cock was within, Daenerys closed her plump lips around it, forming a nice soft seal. Then, with it well-formed, she pushed that soft seal slowly down his length. Lucas could feel her wet tongue pressed against the underside of his cock. Heat, slickness, and pressure all rolled along his stiff length, till Daenerys’s sealed lips came to a stop at his base, his coarse, brown shorthairs upon her face. Lucas groaned. When Daenerys slowly brought her lips back up, that soft, hot seal ascending his length, Lucas saw that a sheen of saliva already shone on his flesh.  
  
          “Yes, make it sloppy,” Lucas said, approving. “Plenty of saliva.”  
  
          “Mm-hm,” Daenerys obediently agreed as she gazed up at him, not troubling to use words. Words would require her removing her mouth from his cock. She knew he didn’t want that.  
  
          Lucas let Daenerys suck him off sensually for a time, savoring the slow, defined sensation of her lips and tongue pleasuring his aching manhood. Leaning forward, Lucas reached down and played with Daenerys’s perky breasts, enjoying their softness and warmth and the way they swayed side to side whenever he pushed them. They were so perfectly sized, not too large, not too small. And their little, brightly pink nipples were such beauties as well, and so hot and hard to his touch.  
  
          Before long, all the length of Lucas’s tall cock was absolutely sodden with Daenerys’s saliva. Lewd, wet sounds left her sealed lips each time they stroked his tip, pockets of air escaping when her mouth traveled that little dip between crown and shaft. As sloppy as Lucas’s cock was, it might’ve been that Daenerys’s saliva would be enough lubricant on its own. But Lucas intended to give himself as easy a passage as possible. He’d sent for the olive oil because he meant to use it.  
  
          Swelling with desire, Lucas reached for the back of Daenerys’s head and gathered a thick fistful of her long, pale blonde tresses. He then used her hair as a handhold with which he pushed her sealed lips up and down his cock. He stroked himself with her mouth, directing her lips and tongue to move at his pace, to give him the pleasure he wanted where and when he wanted it. For a short moment, he had her suck off only his crown, enjoying the intensity of it. But soon he used deep plunges that took Daenerys to her mouth’s hilt, each time pushing her lips down to the base of his cock. She took his cock into her throat without issue, with nary a gag or cough. Lucas couldn’t name the day when Daenerys was first able to do that, but he loved it.  
  
          Then came a rapping on the bedchamber door. Lucas held Daenerys to a stop, her lips sealed midway around his cock. The knocking was timed well, as Lucas had forgotten himself, and had crept dangerously close to climax. His cock was throbbing inside Daenerys’s mouth, pulsating against the flat of her tongue.  
  
          Daenerys took her lips slowly from Lucas’s cock, till they finally popped off him. After receiving a farewell kiss on his crown, Lucas rose and went to the door. Again he opened it only a crack, only enough to fit his face.  
  
          “Here, Your Grace,” Ser Nakarro said as he brandished the requested vial.  
  
          Lucas reached through the gap, took the vial, and then shut the door and fastened its locks. When he turned around, he saw that Daenerys had already gone to their bed, sitting on its edge.  
  
          Lucas was upon on her in an instant, tossing the sealed vial of olive oil onto the bed furs. He grabbed Daenerys’s underskirt and yanked it down. Daenerys went flat on her back and raised her legs, allowing Lucas to pull her underskirt from her feet without needing to crouch down. Once the underskirt was in hand, Lucas felt the crotch of it with his fingers. There was a hint of moistness. He held that wet patch to his nose and breathed it in. It was a healthy, musky scent. The scent of a woman. _His_ woman. Lucas tossed the underskirt away, gave each of Daenerys’s soft, small feet a pecking kiss, and then lowered her legs. “Roll over,” Lucas told her. “Get on all fours.”  
  
          Daenerys did as he bid, rolling over onto her hands and knees and then crawling forward a ways, giving Lucas the space to climb onto their bed behind her, which he promptly did. On his knees behind Daenerys’s rear, Lucas grabbed her arse and spread it, giving a clear view of the treasures between her cheeks. The pink inner slit of her puffy cunt was glistening between her silver-blonde shorthairs, as arousing as ever. But Lucas gazed instead at the treasure above it, at Daenerys’s pink, wrinkled rosebud of an arsehole. It was such a tightly coiled little pucker. It looked like it would’ve resisted entry from a toothpick, much less Lucas’s stiff and swollen manhood. But surely that was nothing that enough lubricant could not solve.  
  
          Lucas snatched up the vial of olive oil again and pulled the stopper out to the sound of a satisfying _pop._ “Lean forward a bit,” he said. Daenerys did so, raising her arse higher in the air. Doing his best to keep her arse cheeks spread with one hand, Lucas brought forth the vial and drizzled the olive oil onto her arsehole. Some of it seeped within, but most of it trickled down over her cunt and onto the bed furs. Once Daenerys’s arsehole seemed well oiled, Lucas sought a test. He prodded his forefinger against that pink rosebud, and to his great delight, his finger slickly slipped in. Slowly, he pushed it in the rest of the way, up to his knuckle. An unbelievable heat and pressure swirled around Lucas’s finger. He almost salivated at the thought of feeling that around his cock. “Does that hurt?” he asked, wondering.  
  
          “No.” Daenerys watched him from over her shoulder. “But ... it feels odd.”  
  
          Lucas chuckled beneath his breath. He withdrew his finger. “I imagine it does.” For good measure, Lucas drizzled the last of the olive oil onto his cock, tossed the empty vial aside, and then gave himself a few pumps with his hand to distribute it. After taking the base of his cock in one hand and his wife’s slender waist in the other, he scooted closer. When his crown prodded that slick, pink rosebud, Lucas flushed with excitement. With his cock aligned and his crown kissing her arsehole, Lucas grabbed Daenerys’s waist in both hands, drew a deep breath, and then began easing his hips forward.  
  
          Lucas’s crown gently opened Daenerys’s arsehole, parting that pink rosebud. His cock entered her arse with a luscious smoothness. He inserted himself gradually. Slowly but surely he sheathed all the length of his stiff manhood inside his wife’s rectum, which _enchanted_ his aching flesh with that intense heat and pressure he sought. Moments later, Lucas was fully slotted inside her, his ballocks pressed against her cunt.  
  
          Lucas let out a deep groan. Daenerys’s arse surrounded his member with sensations like it’d never felt. Her little cunt never lacked snugness, but this was a different tale entirely. Her rectum gripped his manhood like a closed fist, clenching and squeezing him as it warmed his sensitive flesh with that oven-like heat. Lucas knew that once he well and truly began, he wouldn’t last long. His wife’s arsehole would squeeze his seed out of him in very short order. But that was alright. Pacing himself had its place, but so did getting a swift, satisfying release.  
  
          Lucas shifted his hands to Daenerys’s arse. It had plenty of flesh to fill them, more than enough to grasp and fondle. He took hold of each succulent cheek and sunk his fingers as far as they would go, holding her tight. With her rear end well gripped, Lucas began slowly pulling his hips back, withdrawing his manhood from Daenerys’s stretched arsehole. As each inch re-emerged from that squeezing clench, the warm air of the bedchamber felt almost cool on his cock, cold in comparison to the immense heat within his wife’s arse. Once his crown was the only part of his manhood still sheathed inside her, he drove it all back in, distinctly faster than he had the first time.  
  
          For her part, Daenerys weathered this experiment well. She gave no grunt of discomfort as she was penetrated in this new, strange place. She still watched from over her shoulder, her sweet, violet eyes never straying from Lucas’s for long. Her hands were not clenching the bed furs; they remained calmly placed, fingers splayed. And her back was slack; not tight, not arched. She had spoken the truth; she was not nervous. Daenerys would’ve done anything in bed that Lucas asked, for he had long ago demonstrated that he would only ever _protect_ her, not hurt her.  
  
          Lucas gave Daenerys’s arse a soft strike, not sharp enough to elicit any pain, but sharp enough to make the flesh wiggle in response. That was always a lovely treat for his eyes. Meanwhile, Lucas’s thrusts had grown much faster. His hips pumped away. That delightful sheath of heat, pressure, and slickness was moving swiftly across his length, and that was swiftly hastening his journey to the inevitable end.  
  
          Lucas began grunting. His hands shifted again, returning to Daenerys’s slender waist. He had long known that to be the perfect handhold when fucking her from behind, for it was with that handhold that he could easily double the force of each thrust. Lucas held Daenerys firmly as he drove hard into her arse, sinking his cock to the hilt of her slicked squeeze with every thrust. So hard were those thrusts that her soft arse jiggled every time his groin clapped them. Before long, he had worked himself into a proper furor. Pleasure rolled in his gut, hot and tingly.  
  
          The sound of wet, slapping flesh now filled the chamber. Daenerys began to moan. Lucas hadn’t been sure how it would feel for her, but sure enough, he could now see pleasure on her face. Her silver-blonde eyebrows were arching, and she was nibbling her bottom lip.  
  
          Soon it was too much. After a few more fierce, arse-clapping thrusts, Lucas felt the pleasure boil over in his gut. He was past the point of no return. He fucked Daenerys wildly, thrashing out the last of his restraint, his hips noisily _shlap-shlap-shlapping_ into her arse.  
  
          Then he burst.  
  
          Lucas groaned loudly. His cock rhythmically swelled and shuddered as it spurted out his seed, and seven days of seed it was. An incredibly intense orgasm wracked him as bliss fired from his nerves. The muscle-tightening waves of pleasure came one after the other, lasting a long, long while. Lucas’s cock spurted seemingly endlessly, filling Daenerys’s hot bowels. Lucas continued thrusting all the while, riding out the last of his climax as best he could, letting Daenerys’s clench squeeze him for as much pleasure as he could fuck it for. And still a few final spurts came. Her arse was milking him dry.  
  
          Once the last waved of pleasure had washed through him, once his whole body was buzzing with an oh so agreeable warmth, Lucas began his withdraw. He watched Daenerys’s arsehole intently as his softening manhood exited it. His length was even slicker than it had been before. Now it had a glaze of white. Soon only Lucas’s sensitive crown remained, till it too slipped free to the sound of a wet _shlick._ Daenerys’s arsehole shut tight, closing back into that pink, wrinkled rosebud, looking as though it had never been touched.  
  
          Lucas let out a deep, satisfied sigh. As he was giving Daenerys’s round arse a few appreciative pats, his seed made its own exit, oozing from her pink rosebud in a thin trail of white. Not much came out. Lucas knew much more was still inside her. He suspected the rest of it would exit the next time Daenerys sat on a privy pot.  
  
          Lucas fell like a log onto his back on their bed. He was breathing heavily, his flesh still buzzing. When Lucas closed his eyes, when he felt Daenerys’s warm, soft body curl up beside him, he knew he’d sleep deeper than he had in months.


	6. Chapter 6

**DAENERYS  
**  
          After the previous day, Dany was eager for some peace and quiet. And that she was given. Well, the peace at least. Not so much the quiet.  
  
          Vaenya Velaryon was a tall girl, five-foot-ten at fifteen years of age, much taller than Dany. She was slim throughout, with hips scarcely wider than her waist and a barely swollen bosom. Hers was a comely face, narrow, with tall cheekbones and a sloped nose. She was the youngest child of Lucas’s granduncle, Maevar Velaryon. Like her father, Vaenya’s blood of Old Valyria showed. She had shining silver hair and deeply purple eyes, and her unblemished skin was as pale as porcelain. Her face was heavily painted, noticeably more than Dany’s, with an intense black smoke around her eyes, a shining cherry red gloss on her lips, and rosy red blooms on each of her cheeks.  
  
          At Lucas’s suggestion, Vaenya was the first of Dany’s ‘ladies-in-waiting, _’_ highborn maidens who were expected to accompany her, provide her companionship, and learn from her example till the time came that they were given to a man. Lucas had said Dany should take several more ladies-in-waiting after the lords of the other houses of the crownlands swore fealty to them, and even more still after they reclaimed King’s Landing and the Iron Throne. But if all of Dany’s future ladies-in-waiting were to be as chatty as Vaenya was, Dany would prefer to keep the count to one. In truth, Dany didn’t know why any Westerosi girls would want her to set an example for them. This would only be her first day in this land. Though Dany was a year older than Vaenya, Vaenya had been a Westerosi lady for longer. Vaenya knew better the culture, the customs, and the expectations. But if taking these ladies-in-waiting was Dany’s duty, then take them she would. Lucas never balked at his duties, and so Dany wouldn’t balk at hers either.  
  
          Dany sat with Vaenya in hers and Lucas’s bedchamber, in two of the three armchairs that surrounded a low, glass table. The air smelled of sweet perfumes, of both Dany’s and her lady-in-waiting’s. Shining through the tall windows were bright shafts of warm sunlight, fuzzy with motes. Fires burned in the chamber’s two hearths, giving even more warmth. Their crackling was muffled by the closed glass panes before them. The many glass furnishments within High Tide was something Dany had noticed at once. When she’d asked him about it, Lucas explained that, along with shipbuilding, Driftmark was known for its talented glassblowers.  
  
          Dany wore a violet gown trimmed with silver, with a white ermine collar and long, flowing sleeves. It was a heavy gown, thick and cozy, and Dany was grateful for that. Winter was returning to Westeros, and Driftmark’s salty breezes were already unpleasantly chilly. Dany had very swiftly learned that this island was not the endlessly humid heat that the lands around Volantis had been. Vaenya wore a gown the color of cream, also padded with white furs.  
  
          At the insistence of the other noblewomen, Dany had allowed herself to be covered in jewels. Around her throat was a silver necklace studded with pale amethysts and dazzling diamonds, encircling four of her fingers were bands of white gold, and cinching her waist was a belt lined with white spinels. Dany had never been so bejeweled before, and she had been uncertain on how she looked with it all ... but then Lucas told her she was stunning ... and that put her uncertainties to rest. That was the last Dany had seen of Lucas that day. A long list of tasks took him from her. Dany had offered to go with him as he ordered these new purchases and organized their newly stationed legionnaires, but Lucas had said they were menial tasks, and that he wanted her to relax through the morning. _‘Queens deserve rest,’_ he had said. Thus, there Dany was, resting and relaxing. Or trying to, at least. It had only been three or so hours since Dany had last seen her husband, but that was already the longest she had ever been apart from him. Dany didn’t like the feeling. She missed Lucas terribly ... but she would let no one know that.  
  
          With a needle in hand and a gown over her knee, Vaenya was sewing beautiful embroideries. While Vaenya sewed, Dany cradled Aelyssa in her arms. Sweet Aly had just finished her meal of mother’s milk minutes ago, and now was drifting peacefully to sleep. Dany ran a finger through the wisp of hair on Aly’s head. It was the silver color of the blood of Old Valyria, but it was not the pale silver of her brother’s or Vaenya’s. Rather, Aly’s was more of a blondish silver. Like her mother. Dany smiled at the sight of it.  
  
          Jace sat at play nearby, smashing together two wood-carved figurines that looked like horsed knights. Dany was grateful for him to be sitting still. He had recently began running, and now he was more wont to sprint around than to walk. He was almost frighteningly fast for a boy of seventeen months. Much too careless. The maester assigned to Driftmark, Alavin, an awkward but intelligent man, had told Dany that Jace would need to begin learning his letters in a few months.  
  
          Standing by the chamber door was a knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Joreus. He wore a full suit and helm of gleaming armor that revealed little more of his face than his brown eyes. His teal cloak was clasped with a brooch of the Free Legion’s sigil, a dragon bearing broken chains. He was an unbelievably large man, not only absurdly tall, but incredibly burly as well. Dany hadn’t even been sure that men could get so large till she met that man.  
  
          Dany was thankful that having Aly in her arms gave her reason not to be holding a needle. She did not care for needlework. Perhaps if she had been taught it from a young age, she would think otherwise. She had taken up a sewing needle for the first time only two years ago, at Clare’s instruction, and was still barely more than a novice. It was work Dany only ever found to be tedious.  
  
          “Why is it that queens get to keep their house’s name when they marry?” Vaenya suddenly asked while running a needle and thread through the gown over her knees. “Other ladies don’t. Grandmother Jeanenya became Jeanenya Velaryon when she married her husband. But Cersei was still Cersei Lannister when she married King Robert. And you’re still Daenerys Targaryen, even though you married Lucas.”  
  
          “I’m not sure why,” Dany said.  
  
          “But you’d be queen with or without a husband,” Vaenya noted. “And Targaryen is a name no one would ever want to lose. It just sounds so ... _powerful,_ don’t you think?”  
  
          “I suppose. But considering how many people in Westeros wanted my family dead, I can certainly imagine someone wanting to lose the name. Rhaegar’s wife surely wished her children didn’t have the name when Lannister soldiers murdered them.”  
  
          Vaenya nodded airily, as though no longer listening. “My father wants to wed me to Stanler Mooton,” she said. She did not sound pleased.  
  
          “Is he Lord Mooton’s eldest son?” Dany asked.  
  
          “Eldest living.” Then Vaenya gave Dany a long, awkward look, as though remembering that Dany might not even know who they were speaking of. “The Mootons are of Maidenpool, Your Grace, over by—”  
  
          “—I know who the Mootons are,” Dany cut her off. Though this was Dany’s first day in Westeros, Lucas had taught her much about it, the crownlands and Blackwater Bay especially. And long before Lucas, Ser Willem Darry had taught Dany about Westeros as well. “Do you not fancy this Stanler?”  
  
          Vaenya shook her head furiously. “He’s like a twig. All skin and bones. And his head is like a thumb. No chin at all.”  
  
          “Is he sweet, at least?”  
  
          “Gods, you sound just like Grandmother. I don’t _care_ if he’s sweet,” Vaenya whined. “I don’t _want_ sweet. I want _handsome.”_  
  
          Dany was bewildered. “You’d rather a horrible and handsome husband than a sweet and homely one?” she asked. It was hard for Dany to believe that anyone would ... and then she thanked her own luck on the matter, for having a husband who was both handsome _and_ sweet.  
  
          “Yes,” Vaenya said, blunt as a bludgeon. “Being sweet won’t change how our children look. If I marry Stanler, my children will be ugly, and then no one would want them. They wouldn’t be taken into any important courts, and they wouldn’t get a good wife or husband.”  
  
          Dany was quite certain that perceived beauty did not matter as much as the power of the family one was born into. There was a Lannister man Lucas had told her about, ‘the Imp,’ a supposedly stunted and grotesque creature, who had at one point jointly been one of the ugliest men in the Seven Kingdoms _and_ one of the most powerful. But Dany had no interest in arguing. “I could command your father to wait. Soon Lucas and I will have many more lords sworn to us, and that’ll mean more men willing to wed you to their sons.”  
  
          Vaenya’s purple eyes bulged with excitement. “You would command him to wait, on my behalf?”  
  
          “If you’d like.”  
  
          Vaenya grinned and bounced in her chair. “Oh, thank you, thank you, Your Grace!” she cried out. When she finally calmed, she said, “But ... in truth ... the man I _really_ want to wed is here in Driftmark. Right here in the castle, even.”  
  
          Dany grew curious. “Who?”  
  
          Vaenya leaned a little closer and spoke a little quieter, as though this man might somehow hear them despite not being in the bedchamber. _“The Hand of the King.”_  
  
          Dany felt her face wrinkle up in disgust, unable to stop herself. _“Colton?”_  
  
          Vaenya recoiled, shocked by Dany’s reaction. “Yes. Colton Rykker. _The Hand of the King._ He’s the second most powerful man in Westeros now. If I married the Hand, our children could be anything, marry anyone ... he’s _so_ _handsome.”_  
  
          Dany found Colton to be rather plain in appearance, but that might’ve been because she had never cared for the man. She still did not understand the affection her husband held for him. To Dany, Lucas and Colton seemed nothing alike. Lucas was noble, proud, loving, and compassionate, while Colton was crude, smug, lecherous, and self-serving. To be sure, there were times where Lucas could be stubborn or short of temper or vindictive, but that was most often towards his enemies. He had already done more good for more people than Colton _ever_ would. Perhaps it was Colton’s rawness that interested Lucas ... or perhaps being friends since boyhood blinded him. But Dany would never risk hurting her husband’s heart by telling him that.  
  
          Something else now sparked Vaenya’s eyes. “Can you ... command him to marry me?”  
  
          Dany was not sure, but she would not, regardless. House Rykker had already sworn to her and Lucas, and Colton’s bachelorhood was an asset that could be better used. “No,” Dany said.  
  
          Vaenya’s gaze plummeted to the floor. She fell silent, pouting.  
  
          Some time later, when Aly was soundly asleep, Dany took her to her crib. After giving her a loving, feather-light kiss on her soft, pink forehead, Dany gingerly laid her down and snugly swaddled her in her silk blanket, just as Clare had long ago taught her, back when Jace was the little one that slept in a crib. With Aly situated, Dany looked down to her bosom and began re-lacing her bodice. She had made herself decent as soon as she’d finished feeding Aly, but she had not bothered with the laces till then. As she did so, Dany wondered when last she had worn a brassiere.  
  
          “Your Grace,” Vaenya said.  
  
          Dany turned around. “Yes?” She went and sat with Vaenya again, still fiddling with her bodice’s laces. She hoped Vaenya was not about to ask that she sew with her.  
  
          But Vaenya seemed bashful, for once. “Did it ... did it hurt when ...”  
  
          “When what?”  
  
          “Did it hurt when Lucas ... took your maidenhead?”  
  
          Dany held that question for a moment. She wondered what Vaenya would rather hear: a lie, that it didn’t hurt, or the truth, that it did. Dany herself had known the first time would hurt. Her brother Viserys had told her such when he found out that she’d flowered. He had used that knowledge to terrorize her, to make her fear it. And he had succeeded. But even while at the mercy of that fear, Dany had managed to brave that first night with Lucas. Lucas’s guidance made that easier. And now it was a night she could look back on fondly.  
  
          Dany decided that the truth – the _whole_ truth – would serve Vaenya best. “It did,” she admitted. “I bled. And I was sore between the legs the morning after. But it didn’t hurt the next time, or the time after that. And even with the pain ... it wasn’t a night of suffering. It was worth it. And perhaps if your husband is ... smaller,” _between the legs,_ Dany meant, “it won’t even hurt the first time.”  
  
          That seemed to soothe Vaenya somewhat, but then she pouted again and gave a pitiful whimper. “Why oh why must women suffer all the pain and blood?” she griped.  
  
          “Men suffer too,” Dany said. She called to mind something Clare had once told her. “‘Women bleed in bed. Men bleed in battle.’ When we all lived on a house by a beach near Volantis, slavers from Meereen attacked us. They were all killed, but not before they opened the back of my husband’s hand with a sword. I’m sure that blooding hurt worse than my maiden’s blooding.”  
  
          “No sword wound hurts as much as childbirth.”  
  
          Dany would not argue against that. Jace and Aly were _‘easy’_ births, or so Dany had been told, and yet still they hurt worse than any other pain she had ever known. Dany looked to Jace, and then smiled. “And even that pain is worth it,” she said.  
  
          The chamber door came open, and Dany’s gaze went to it. Two maidservants entered. One was a young, scrawny blonde that Dany could not recall the name of, but the other was one Dany knew very well. She was a woman of middle age with a sparsely wrinkled, heart-shaped face, sweet, brown eyes, and long, brown hair that had the beginnings of white at its roots.  
  
          “Elayna,” Dany said with a smile. At Dany’s command, Elayna was among the maidservants tasked with tending to Jace and Aly in Dany’s absences from them. Elayna was of simple mind at times – more so in some activities than others – but there was no maidservant that Dany trusted more with her children.  
  
          Elayna shone with a big smile of her own. “I hope you’re well, Your Grace,” she said cheerily.  
  
          “I am.”  
  
          “The king sends for you, Your Grace,” the other maid said. “Your small council is convening.”  
  
          “We’ll watch the little ones while you’re gone,” Elayna told Dany. It was a habit of hers to state the obvious, but Dany did not mind.  
  
          Dany rose to her feet and walked over to Jace, who was still busy at play. “Here, my sweet, give Mother a hug,” Dany told him as she went down onto one knee.  
  
          Jace redirected his attention from his toys for only long enough to stand and give Dany a brief but firm embrace. “Lub yoo,” he said. Of the few words Jace could understandably speak, those were the two Dany adored hearing most of all.  
  
          “I love you more,” Dany said. With his duty done, Jace returned to his figurines and fell back onto his bottom. Dany went to the chamber door.  
  
          “Where should I go?” Vaenya asked from her chair, looking at turns confused and peeved.  
  
          Dany shrugged at her. “Wherever you please?” The words left Dany sounding more like a question than an answer.  
  
          “Can I come to the small council?”  
  
          “Anywhere but there,” Dany clarified. With that, she departed.  
  
          On the other side of the door, in the hall, two more of the Kingsguard stood on watch, the Sers Nakarro and Aerar. Each were like silver towers of men, draped only in the teal cloaks clasped to them.  
  
          When Dany started down the hall, Ser Nakarro and Ser Aerar did the same, walking perfectly in stride with her, step-for-step. Dany stopped and turned about, facing them. “Ser Aerar, stay here with the little ones,” she commanded him in the Free Cities’ Bastard Valyrian, the tongue she knew the knight understood best. Dany had no trouble speaking it. She was as fluent in it as she was in Westeros’s Common Tongue. Long ago, in the house with the red door in Braavos, Ser Willem had her taught both tongues, for he had known that both would be needed.  
  
          To Dany’s surprise, Ser Aerar did not obey her. Instead, he hesitated. “Your Grace, the king made clear how many should always accompany you when—”  
  
          “—I don’t care,” Dany stopped him, shaking her head. “You’re sworn to protect our children too, so that’s what you’ll do. Stay here. That’s a command _,_ Ser. Must I remind you that you’re sworn to _obey_ my commands? Shall I tell my husband that you’ve _dis_ obeyed me?” Dany was almost shouting by the end. She had to pause afterwards; she had not intended to blaze at Ser Aerar. She took no pleasure in speaking so harshly to the knight. The men of the Free Legion were understandably more beholden to Lucas than they were Dany, as it was Lucas who occasionally fought beside them on the ground in battle, and Lucas who had often given them speeches throughout their campaign across the Free Cities. But these men were more than legionnaires. They were Kingsguard, and they had sworn vows to Lucas and Dany both. And Dany would _not_ allow Jace and Aly to be guarded by too few Kingsguard, and nor would she suffer one of the knights _objecting_ to that.  
  
          Ser Aerar bowed his head. “I beg your forgiveness, my queen.”  
  
          “Do as I command, and you will be forgiven,” Dany said, softer now.  
  
          Ser Aerar returned to the door and faithfully remained there.  
  
          Dany made her way across the castle, heading towards the chamber that Lucas had told her would be the small council’s. Ser Nakarro stayed close beside her. Dany looked about as she walked. High Tide was still not a familiar sight. If the great castle in King’s Landing was called the Red Keep; it seemed to Dany that High Tide could as easily be called the White Keep. Its colors were as brisk and chilly as its air, with its milky walls, its sea green banners, and its icy carpets and curtains. When she passed windows facing east, Dany looked upon the narrow sea. Its waters were only a hint bluer than the cloudless skies above them.  
  
          “It is rare for you to speak so commandingly, my queen,” Ser Nakarro noted as they walked.  
  
          Dany looked over and up at the knight. His hazel eyes were watching her. “I did not wish to speak to him so.”  
  
          “You have a dragon’s fierceness inside you. You are sweet of heart and often shy, and that hides it. But your children bring it out.”  
  
          Dany looked forward. A smile came over her. “You are kind to say so, Ser.”  
  
          “I am only honest,” Ser Nakarro said.  
  
          For a moment, Dany wondered how Ser Nakarro could be so observant, but then she remembered that he was a knight of the Kingsguard. The first of them from the Free Cities, no less. Over the past months, only one man had spent more time with Dany than he.  
  
          After rounding the final corner into the hall she sought, Dany found Lucas standing with his granduncle Maevar by the door at the hall’s end, speaking on something that couldn’t be heard from afar. Another knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Stallan, flanked them. Lucas wore a padded, black doublet embroidered with a sprawling, icy blue likeness of a thrice-headed dragon. His wavy brown hair was parted from the right, and his face was shaved as smooth as ever, both of which were the flawless work of a fleet of servants.  
  
          When Lucas happened to glance down the hall and saw Dany, his face lit up, eyes brightening and lips smiling. He sent Maevar into the chamber and started towards her. As he came nearer, his bright blue eyes shined under each shaft of sunlight he passed.  
  
          Dany found herself going faster and faster towards Lucas, till she was running and holding up the long skirt of her gown. Lucas matched her pace. A few racing heartbeats later, Dany and Lucas collided into a firm and spinning embrace, laughing and kissing. When Lucas stopped whirling Dany about, they deepened their kiss, uncaring of the watching Kingsguard knights. Lucas had always been a better kisser than Dany, smoother and more talented with both his lips and his tongue, but Dany had grown more able to match his rhythm.  
  
          When they broke their kiss, they opened their eyes and grinned at each other. The spinning had left Dany more than a little dizzy, but she managed to stay steady on her feet, as did her husband. “I meant to come get you earlier,” Lucas said, “but, well, one thing led to another. I trust that you and Vaenya get on well?”  
  
          Dany shrugged. “Well enough.” As she looked upon her husband’s face, she could not stop herself from taking another kiss from his lips. Lucas breathed a happy sigh ... and then suddenly began whirling her about again. Dany laughed.  
  
          “My king, my queen,” Ser Nakarro said, sounding reluctant to intrude. “There is a man.”  
  
          Lucas set Dany down. They looked together to where Ser Nakarro faced, down the hall. Not ten feet from them all, an unfamiliar man now stood, smiling. He was utterly hairless, bald-headed and bald-faced. His plump body was clothed in soft silks and rich velvets, both of deep purple. He wore slippers on his feet, which looked to be as powdered as his hands and face. The wide sleeves of his heavy purple robe joined as he held his hands together. Even from afar, Dany could smell the sweet, flowery scents wafting from him. “Please do forgive me for staring,” the man said. “It seemed such a joyous moment. I did not dare to interrupt.” His voice was airy and stagy, and he lingered long on some of his words, as if tasting their syllables.  
  
          Lucas took his hands from Dany’s waist and faced the strange man. “Lord Varys,” he greeted him. “I feared that your coming had been delayed. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you as a man grown.”  
  
          Varys approached and bowed to Lucas. His hairless head shined. “My king. The pleasure is surely all mine.” He then looked to Dany and bowed to her as well. “My queen, I have long seen you through the eyes of my little birds, but it’s a comfort to finally see you through mine own.”  
  
          “I suspect Cersei didn’t grant you the leave to come here,” Lucas said dryly when Varys stood straight again.  
  
          Still Varys smiled. “You suspect wisely and correctly, Your Grace. I have parted from Cersei’s service. I suspect I will not see her again while she lives, sad though that is. She will soon come to find that Pycelle has parted from her service as well, if she has not already.”  
  
          “The Grand Maester? Has he come with you?” Lucas asked, looking confused. Dany was as well.  
  
          Varys lightly shook his head.  
  
          The realization clicked in Dany’s mind like a key into a lock. This Grand Maester was dead, killed, perhaps even by Varys’s own hands, though he seemed the sort to have others kill for him. Dany could not imagine those powdered hands wielding any sort of weapon.  
  
          “Ah,” Lucas said.  
  
          “And Lord Kevan Lannister has met the same fate.”  
  
          Lucas grinned and nodded. He seemed impressed. “Ruthless,” he said. Dany was not surprised. She could not imagine her husband being anything but pleased at the death of a Lannister man.  
  
          “Necessary,” Varys replied, sighing. “I held no hate for the man, but, alas, Kevan was the last living Lannister who could keep Cersei’s kingdom steered on course. Now she is free to veer awry. Perhaps she will find herself wrecked without you taking any action yourself.”  
  
          “Were it to be so easy.” Lucas nodded behind himself, to the small council’s chamber. “Come, it’s time we begin.”  
  
          The chamber of the small council was sundrenched, steeped in the warm, bright sunlight breathed by its many uncovered windows. It was spare and spacious, with few decorations and much room for one to pace back and forth, were that needed. Only a single banner hung, and it still depicted the old Velaryon sigil: a silver seahorse on a sea green field. In the direct center of the chamber was a great stone table, far longer than it was wide, and yet still not narrow. The table sat nine padded chairs, one at the head of the table and four at each of its long sides. On the table near its head was a pile of scrolls.  
  
          All other council members were already in attendance. Colton, the Hand of the King, occupied the chair just to the right of the empty one at the far head of the table. His long hair of black ringlets was as unsightly to Dany as ever. There was always an air of smugness around him, as though all this honor and authority bestowed upon him was inevitable. Dany did not envy his future wife, whoever the woman would be.  
  
          The old but always sturdy Lord-Commander of Lucas’s Kingsguard, Ser Barristan, who Dany knew well and was always pleased to see, stood nearby with his back to a wall. Though Ser Barristan’s position as Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard made him a member of the small council, Dany suspected that he intended to continue to act as a guard and not as an advisor. The old knight was always humble like that. The thin, white hair of his head was cut very short, and his whiskers were kept as a well-groomed stubble. His blue eyes were most often somber or serious, or both, as they were then. He was the only Kingsguard knight who wore a tabard over his armor. It displayed the coat of arms of his house: three gold wheat stalks on an earthy-brown field.  
  
          Lord Maevar Velaryon was Lucas’s sole surviving granduncle, and the small council’s master of ships. He was a tall and muscular man whose robust health made him appear younger than his six-and-sixty years of age, much like Ser Barristan. Maevar’s eyes were the same deep purple he’d bestowed upon Vaenya, as was his bright silver hair, which he kept short. His full but trimmed beard covered his broad jaw. Maevar was no stranger to command or governance, Dany had learned. He had acted as the steady guiding hand of Lucas’s young cousin Monty in the short time the boy had _‘ruled’_ Driftmark.  
  
          Lord Baegon Velaryon was Maevar’s eldest son, and the small council’s master of coin. He was a man of eight-and-forty years, and he was one of the fattest men Dany had ever seen, with a moon-shaped face, thick limbs, and fingers like sausages. Though his huge head was bald on top, his silver beard was thick and greasy. Dany had been told that Baegon was an accomplished tradesman, and that he was almost solely responsible for House Velaryon remaining debt-free, despite heavily participating in the wars of the past twenty years. Elayna had whispered to Dany that morning that some High Tide servants called Baegon _‘Lord Bagel’_ behind his back, on account of his favorite food, which he ate a stack of each and every morning. To Dany, Baegon looked a great deal like Illyrio, the fat Pentoshi man who brokered Viserys’s _‘sale’_ of Dany to Lucas. Dany was not yet sure if that resemblance was a good or bad thing. Illyrio had done Dany no wrong ... but he acted only for his own monetary gain. Dany could only wonder if Baegon would do the same.  
  
          Driftmark’s maester, Alavin, was a man of three-and-thirty. He was of middling height, noticeably shorter than nearly every other man in the chamber. He had a plain face, brown eyes, patchy whiskers, and a mop of brown, thickly-curling hair on his head. He wore a maester’s robe, plain and heavy and gray. Around his neck was a maester’s chain fashioned from links of many different metals, some that Dany recognized, such as iron, brass, bronze, and copper, but many that she did not. He seemed quite young to be the fountain of knowledge that all in High Tide were to draw from, but Dany and Lucas had been told that he was extremely intelligent and well-read.  
  
          When speaking to Dany early that morning, Lucas had nominated Maevar and Baegon to their small council seats and asked for her thoughts. Dany could only approve. They seemed wise choices, and of the lords available to them, no one was better suited. With Varys as the master of whisperers, only the role of master of law remained unfilled.  
  
          Greetings were exchanged as Dany, Lucas, and Varys entered, though Maevar and Baegon did not greet the latter. Lucas walked to the head of the table. Upon seeing that only one chair was at the head, Lucas unceremoniously walked around the table, grabbed one of the chairs from the far end, returned to the head, and placed the grabbed chair perfectly evenly alongside the other. With that done, he took Dany’s hand and ushered her into her seat, the left of the two chairs at the table’s head. He then sat in the other, beside her.  
  
          At Lucas’s immediate right sat Colton, and beyond him sat the strong Lord Maevar, and beyond him the fat Lord Baegon, and beyond him the timid Maester Alavin. At Dany’s immediate left sat Lord Varys, and beyond him no one. Dany wondered if the others were scared to sit beside him. Then she wondered if she ought to be too. _He doesn’t frighten me,_ Dany thought to herself. _He’s a strange creature, but not a frightening one._ She had expected a man known as _‘the Spider’_ to be much more menacing. With the strange, hairless man seated so close to her, his aroma of sweet perfumes filled her nose. The perfumes were sweeter than her own.  
  
          Maevar and Baegon both glared at Varys, but the strange man was unfazed. “I’m afraid I won’t be staying in Driftmark for long, my lords,” Varys announced in his soft and stagy voice as he cozied in his chair. “I have urgent business to attend to elsewhere. Still, I thought it best to attend this small council’s maiden meeting.”  
  
          Lucas frowned. “That’s not something I want to hear. You’re much needed. When will you return?” Dany thought it strange that Lucas chose to ask _when_ Varys would return and not _where_ he was going, but perhaps Lucas thought he did not need to know.  
  
          “Soon, Your Grace. Perhaps a fortnight. Perhaps a month. Were I able to know for certain, I would tell you. And were this not absolutely needed of me, I would not go.”  
  
          Maevar snorted. “I say good riddance.” He looked to Lucas and Dany. “The Spider has served a great many rulers in his time. Aerys, Robert, Joffrey, Cersei, and now he claims to serve you. Who’s to say where his allegiances lie, or who his true master is? It’s folly to trust him.”  
  
          Varys’s smile remained, still unfazed by the hostility. “I have only ever served one master, my lord. I serve the realm.”  
  
          That did not appease Maevar. “Jacaerys always said the same when men asked if he was loyal to King Aerys. I wonder, who said it first, you or him? You shared Aerys’s small council with Jacaerys. Perhaps you say it only because he did, to try to put us at ease.”  
  
          “Or perhaps he and I were men of the same mind. I considered Lord Jacaerys a good friend. He—”  
  
          “—No _cockless_ man is of the same mind as a man whole,” Baegon retorted, almost spitting the word ‘cockless.’  
  
          Dany was not sure what Baegon spoke of. Who was the ‘cockless’ man? Was it Varys?  
  
          “Leave him be, the both of you!” Lucas barked. “Varys is trustworthy. Few have done more to earn our trust than he.”  
  
          Colton spoke up in his aid. “You two should recall that it was Lord Varys that sent myself and Ser Barristan to Volantis, back when the illborn little shit Joffrey had us stripped of our titles. Might be our king and queen don’t live to return to Westeros if we weren’t there to help them.”  
  
          Maevar and Baegon cooled somewhat at that. Maevar looked from Lucas to Dany and back. “It’s your right to choose who sits on your small council, Your Grace, but we need not like it.”  
  
          “We did not ask that you like it,” Dany said sharply. As far she knew, Varys had done nothing wrong, and she had grown tired of this topic.  
  
          Lucas nodded in agreement. “If you two cannot share this small council with Lord Varys, then we will replace you with men that can.” That silenced them. “Now, believe it or not, there are other matters I intend for us to speak about. Firstly, I—”  
  
          “—My great king, please do forgive my interrupting,” Varys cut in. “But there is something you all need know at once.” He was no longer smiling.  
  
          Lucas nodded and gave a permissive gesture. “Go on then.”  
  
          “I’m not sure if any outside King’s Landing yet know of this. Cersei will keep the city’s ravens in place for some time, but talk of an act this ... _horrific_ ... cannot be quelled. Word will travel. It always does.”  
  
          Dany was growing intensely curious. “What did she do?”  
  
          “Two days ago, in the Great Sept of Baelor, the Faith Militant was holding a trial against Cersei, for her ... unholy relationships. They were awaiting her arrival. Most of King’s Landing’s court was present, save only for those who were absent out of protest, other Lannisters, primarily. But, in the end, Cersei never arrived. I was within the Red Keep, and did not see what happened myself, but ... I heard the boom, and I felt the quake. The Great Sept erupted with wildfire, destroyed by a cache that Cersei must’ve had hidden the catacombs below. All those within were killed.”  
  
          The chamber fell silent. No one spoke, nor moved an inch. A chill crawled down Dany’s back.  
  
          After some time, the creaking of Colton’s chair as he leaned forward was the first sound to be heard. “Who all are dead?” he asked, his voice gravely quiet, quieter than Dany had ever heard him.  
  
          “More than half of the lords and ladies in the city. The High Sparrow was killed as well, alongside scores of his Warrior’s Sons and Poor Fellows. Cersei gave their creed life again, and now she has snuffed it out. The dead number in the hundreds. Most of the city’s highborn that still live are Lannisters and their various westermen vassals.”  
  
          Colton shook his head, as though refusing to believe. “The Tyrells? What of them?” he asked. Dany could see how badly he wanted to be told they were unharmed.  
  
          It seemed Varys could see that too. He was quiet for a moment, and then gave his answer softly. “Every Tyrell in King’s Landing was present in the Great Sept. Loras was under trial as well, and they were all there to bear witness, to support him. Garth, Moryn, Theodore, Luthor, Mace, Garlan, Alerie, Margaery ... and Loras himself. I am sorry, my lord hand. They are dead.”  
  
          Colton fell back against his chair, his eyes bulging. He covered his face, then slowly ran his hands up through his hair.  
  
          “The only surviving Tyrells bearing their name are those in their seat in Highgarden, Lady Olenna and Lord Willas,” Varys went on. “The other remainders are sworn maesters of the Citadel or are wedded ladies residing with their lord husbands. My lord hand, your less than loved uncle Viktor perished as well, though I’m sure that doesn’t make this taste any less sour. Many lords and ladies of the crownlands’ noble houses are among the dead. Whether old, whether young, their intentions, their innocence, it all made no difference to Cersei. They all burned.”  
  
          Maevar shot up to his feet, his chair screeching against the floor. “How could you have let this happen?” he demanded, furious. “Your duty is to know everything, to stop plots like these.”  
  
          “My duty is to know all I can,” Varys corrected him calmly. “I cannot _‘know everything.’_ Cersei has become extremely secretive. She is paranoid, and believes every living soul in King’s Landing is conspiring against her. After this act, she’ll be right to think so. Her son Tommen was not present in the Great Sept, but Cersei presented his body later. I know not how he died. Cersei has coronated herself, not as Queen Mother, but as Queen Regnant. She has consolidated her authority. None remaining in the capital will openly defy her, for fear that they will meet the same fate as those in the Great Sept. She may or may not deny her involvement with the wildfire, but even those loyal to her will know it to be her deed.”  
  
          “She’s as mad as Aerys,” Lucas said softly.  
  
          Varys nodded in agreement. “I’m afraid so.”  
  
          If an act such as this was akin to the madness of her father, as Dany had so often been told, she could see why half of Westeros rose against him. The realm broke in half because of him. Now it was about to do so again, and this time, Dany was to witness it.  
  
          “What do we do?” Ser Barristan asked. The old knight looked as horrified as everyone else. He was shaken, for once.  
  
          “For now, I recommend that we stay our hands,” Varys said.  
  
          _“‘Stay our hands?’”_ Baegon scoffed wildly.  
  
          But Dany could see Varys’s reason. “This wildfire, Cersei has more of it, doesn’t she?” Dany asked.  
  
          “Much more,” Varys affirmed. “She has had the pyromancers of the Alchemists’ Guild concocting jars of it every day for more than a year, since before the Battle of the Blackwater. Foolishly, I had thought that it was all to be used at war, as it was on the Blackwater Rush. I hadn’t thought she could be this mad. I now suspect there are caches of it hidden under many places within King’s Landing, ready to be ignited at Cersei’s command.”  
  
          Lucas was following the thought as well. “She’d rather burn the city than lose it,” he mused gravely.  
  
          “I believe so.”  
  
          Maester Alavin leaned forward. “Your Grace, wildfire is ... an unstable substance,” he spoke up feebly. “But it’s believed that there exist alchemical agents that can neutralize it.”  
  
          “Can you create those agents?” Lucas asked at once.  
  
          “Well, n-no, Your Grace. The Alchemist’s Guild bears an intense hatred for Maesters and the Citadel, for supplanting them throughout the realm. Their recipes, both that of wildfire and of its neutralizer, are close-guarded secrets.”  
  
          Lucas nodded. His bright blue eyes were now burning like ice, bearing that determined look they so often did. “Then we know our course of action.” He looked to his master of whisperers. “Lord Varys, get us the recipe for this neutralizing concoction. Acquire a few jars of wildfire as well, _carefully._ I want to see this work with my own eyes.”  
  
          “A wise course of action, Your Grace,” Varys said. “I will do as you command.”  
  
          “Then there’s nothing more to speak of on this. We will avenge those murdered as soon as we are able. We will dethrone and behead this Mad Queen only when we can do so without watching swaths of King’s Landing go up in flames. No sooner.” Lucas leered at his granduncle Maevar, who still stood. “Sit.”  
  
          Maevar sat.  
  
          “I know it may be hard to change our thoughts, but we’ve other matters,” Lucas said. He leaned forward and tapped the table next to the numerous scrolls. “Feel free to read for yourself, but I already have. Last night, I sent summons to all the lords of the crownlands with assurance of guest right. The Houses of Bar Emmon, Buckwell, Celtigar, Massey, Staunton, and Sunglass have all replied, and all vowed to obey their summons. Only the Houses of Stokeworth and Hayford gave no reply at all.”  
  
          “Small wonder that they’ll all come,” Colton said, quietly and bitterly. “Doubtless they heard of our campaign across Essos. They know of the dragons and the Free Legion. They know they’d be gambling their cities should they reject us. Soon enough they’ll hear of Casterly Rock, and ... of the Great Sept ... if they haven’t already. Then they’ll all be even gladder to bend the knee.”  
  
          “To be without the Houses Stokeworth and Hayford is no loss, Your Grace,” Maevar said as grabbed and looked through some of the scrolls. “Lady Lollys Stokeworth is of feeble mind, and her husband, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, is some upjumped rogue knighted by Joffrey. The _‘ruler’_ of House Hayford, Lady Ermesand, is a babe that still suckles from a wet nurse. Neither houses are needed.”  
  
          _None of the houses are needed,_ Dany almost said. If not for fear of offending Maevar and Baegon by suggesting that having Westerosi men would change little, she would’ve.  
  
          “None of them are needed,” Lucas said.  
  
          Dany looked to Lucas, and then away from him. She fought back a smirk. There was something truly joyous about knowing she was of closer mind to her husband than anyone else in the chamber, than even his own blood.  
  
          “It’s unity we seek from their fealty, not their soldiers,” Lucas explained. “With the dragons and the Free Legion, we could roll over most of Westeros in a year or two, if we desired. But we don’t. Daenerys and I don’t want to conquer our Seven Kingdoms. We don’t want to break them down. We want to bring them together, as they were before. Yet we can only do that with cooperation. Any who stand against us are only smiting themselves.”  
  
          “Every house will bend the knee in the end,” Dany said sternly, emboldened by her husband’s brashness. The words of her house came to her mind. “Their only decision is whether that will be fireless and bloodless, or not.”  
  
          Lucas, Maevar, and Baegon all smiled and nodded. They looked approving. Dany felt a bloom of warmth in her chest. She was proud of herself.  
  
          Just then, the chamber door swung open, and in hurried a boy with messy hair and sunbrowned skin, clothed in well-worn linens. He clutched a sealed scroll in his right hand. A servant boy, he seemed to be. “Y’Grace,” he said breathlessly. “I help Maester Alavin with th’ ravens in th’ rookery, and ‘e said you wanted to be told immed’ly if a scroll came sealed with an archer on green wax.”  
  
          “Bring it here,” Lucas commanded, motioning with his hand.  
  
          The boy hurried over, but when he arrived at Lucas and Dany, he stopped and suddenly appeared confused. He extended his arm, but only so far, as he was unsure who to hand it to. His look of confusion was endearing, and Dany could not help but smile and chuckle at his cuteness. “You may give it to my husband,” Dany said, if for no other reason than Lucas being the one closer.  
  
          “Yes, m’lady—m’grace— _Your Grace,”_ the boy stammered. He bowed very low and held the scroll out to Lucas. The boy’s clumsy bow only required that Lucas reach further to grab the scroll.  
  
          After taking it, Lucas said, “You may go.”  
  
          “Boy,” Dany said just as he turned to leave. He turned around and faced them again. “What is your name?”  
  
          “Hogar, Your Grace.”  
  
          Dany gave him a big, wide smile, just like she would Jace and Aly. “You’ve done well, Hogar.”  
  
          That drew from Hogar a smile of his own. Dany was pleased by that. She had wanted to see the boy smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.” With that, he turned and scampered away.  
  
          Lucas broke the scroll’s seal and unfurled it. He nodded as his eyes went over the words, a grin forming over his lips. “I sent a letter to my uncle Lord Randyll Tarly as well,” he announced to the small council. “And he has swiftly replied. He rides for Stonedance immediately, where he will set sail to us.”  
  
          Colton did not attempt to hide the disdain on his face. Dany was not sure how Lucas would manage to have both Colton and Randyll united under him, with their history. In the wars that had broken out following the Usurper’s death, Lord Randyll was commanding the loyalist army that Colton plotted to loose his men unto in vengeance against the crown, to avenge his father. When Colton’s uncle Viktor then betrayed his plot, Colton was jailed, and Randyll slated him for execution. If not for Colton’s younger brother Renfred freeing him in secret and Lord Varys sending him sailing to Volantis, Randyll would’ve been Colton’s death.  
  
          “Now _that_ is a surprise,” remarked Baegon as he stroked his greasy beard. “He couldn’t have even been home in Horn Hill for very long. He returned there after Lady Margaery was exonerated by the Faith Militant, after Lord Kevan named Lord Mace as Hand of the King. That was not even a month ago. Lord Tarly is not the emotional sort, Your Grace. To leave Horn Hill at your summon, and with such haste?”  
  
          “Lord Tarly is a hard man, but above all, he is a man of duty,” said Maevar. “His Grace is the man’s nephew. The only child of his late sister Maraya.” Maevar looked to Lucas. “He had likely thought you to be dead for years. I’m not surprised that he wants to see with his own eyes if his sister’s only child indeed lives. He’ll see it as his duty to Maraya.”  
  
          Colton gave no comment.  
  
          The door swung open yet again. Now the person who strode in was one Dany knew. It was Ser Surrah, freedman of Volantis, a strong-looking and black-skinned man of middle age. His frizzy hair and beard were salt-and-pepper colored, and his eyes were a dark brown. Like the freedmen of Lucas’s Kingsguard, Ser Surrah wore a silver brooch of a dragon bearing broken chains. Lucas had named him as one of the commanders of the Free Legion for his displays of leadership. “My king, my queen, I have just heard word. Dragonstone is yours,” Ser Surrah announced. He spoke in Westeros’s Common Tongue, and he spoke it well. He’d been taught it by his former master from a young age.  
  
          “How many men guarded it?” asked Lucas.  
  
          “A few hundred.”  
  
          “How many did we lose?” asked Dany.  
  
          “None. They yielded.” Ser Surrah looked from Dany to Lucas. “It is as you said, Your Grace. The lion men are cravens. Easy prey for dragon men.”  
  
          The others looked from Ser Surrah to Lucas with confused looks. All except for Varys. If Varys had been aware of this plan, Dany hadn’t any idea how. She and Lucas had told the plan to very few, as they did not want the garrison of westermen at Dragonstone to learn of it. If they had known that Lucas, Dany, and the dragons had not planned on joining the siege, they might not have yielded so easily.  
  
          “What is he speaking of, Your Grace?” Maevar asked.  
  
          “Daenerys and I sent forty ships and three thousand men of the Free Legion to Dragonstone to reclaim it from the Lannisters. Dragonstone is a close neighbor of our island, and it’s been held by usurpers for much too long. It’s only right that the site of Aegon the Conqueror’s landing be back under his descendant’s control.”  
  
          “You had not mentioned this plan.”  
  
          “Not even to me,” Colton noted dryly, amused.  
  
          “We did not need to,” said Lucas.  
  
          “We had made our decision,” added Dany.  
  
          “And the fate of the garrison?” Maevar asked.  
  
          “We commanded that their ships be disarmed and looted, and then that they all be stuffed onto them,” Lucas explained. “I welcome the idea of them spreading word of our legionnaires.”  
  
          A grin spreading over Baegon’s fat face was the only warning before a big hearty belly laugh rumbled out of him. “Well done, Your Grace! The Seven Kingdoms need to remember our glory days, when we were the Targaryen’s closest allies! Remind them of our strength!”  
  
          “You may go, Ser Surrah,” Dany dismissed him with a polite smile and nod.  
  
          “Thank you, Your Grace.” Ser Surrah bowed low, and then left.  
  
          “Who will you two give Dragonstone’s lordship to?” Maevar asked. Dany did not hear any eagerness in his voice.  
  
          “We’ve not decided,” Lucas answered. “We’ll likely use it like a jewel to dangle in front of some northman or southron to entice them to kneel. The sooner the realm unites under us, the sooner we can put these wars behind us.”  
  
          Varys nodded. “Well said, Your Grace.”  
  
          “Your Grace,” Maester Alavin said, sounding anxious. “I had a curious thought earlier, before we gathered here, and ... I believe it might be worth considering.”  
  
          “What is it, Maester?” Lucas asked.  
  
          “I believe most of the houses of the crownlands will come and swear fealty to you with little question, Your Grace. And if Lord Tarly swears to you as well, perhaps many of the houses of the reach will follow suit. But ... the lords of the stormlands, the riverlands, the vale, the iron islands, the north, and Dorne will all be in no hurry to call you king. You have no intent to conquer them with dragonfire, as you’ve said ... that leaves us with diplomacy ... and the best way to craft alliances is through marriage.” By that last word, all eyes were upon Alavin, and the stares were not kind ones. Alavin noticed the stares at once and wilted under them. He went on, but much slower, and with almost a look of fear in his eyes. “You ... could ... take ... a wife ... from them.”  
  
          Dany could not comprehend what was just suggested. _‘Take a wife?’_ Lucas already had a wife. A man only took one wife, same as a woman was only taken by one husband. Dany had been taught as much forever, since she was old enough to talk. “Lucas has a wife,” Dany was compelled to say.  
  
          “Yes, b-but ... Aegon the Conqueror took two wives at once, and Aegon’s son Maegor took three.” Alavin’s voice grew more nervous with every word. “Th-there is precedent. Those wise of history know that the Targaryens let the thought of polygamy die as their dragons dwindled, wh-when they did not have the strength to do as they pleased ... and ... well ... you have dragons. If you’re intent on uniting the realm as swiftly as possible, then you could consider ...” Alavin’s voice left him as he audibly gulped. He brought his hands to his lap and entwined them, finger through finger.  
  
          The chamber fell quiet, and it remained that way for a long moment, for _much_ too long of a moment. A weakness crept into Dany’s heart. Her throat suddenly felt swollen. She looked to her husband, but he only stared silently at Alavin. _Why isn’t anyone speaking?_ Dany wondered frantically. _Why isn’t anyone decrying this absurdity?  
_  
          When the quiet was at last broken, it was not by Lucas, as Dany desperately desired, but by his Hand. Colton chuckled. “If you truly think Lucas has a desire for any woman other than Daenerys,” he said, “then it’s proof that you don’t know your king well. His Grace is as dutiful as they come. I’m not even sure he’s ever lay with any other woman.”  
  
          Finally, Lucas spoke. “Maester, you do realize it was Daenerys who made _me_ king through marriage, don’t you?”  
  
          “Y-Yes, I realize that. If you think it would be more apt, Her Grace could take another husband. That has no precedent, but—”  
  
          “—Maester,” Dany cut him off, glaring at him. “Stop talking.”  
  
          Alavin nodded furiously. “Y-Yes, Your Grace. I will do just that.”  
  
          “Forgive the young maester for his foolishness,” Baegon said tiredly. “There isn’t a thought that doesn’t cross Alavin’s mind. The issue is he does not always know whether it is _appropriate_ to _speak_ such thoughts.”  
  
          “I appreciate that you intend to assist us, Alavin,” Lucas said lowly and coolly, “but heed me now: _never_ suggest such madness again. Daenerys is my wife. She will remain my _only_ wife. I will take no other. Nor will she take any other.”  
  
          “I understand, Your Grace. Forgive me. I only meant to ... I did not mean ... forgive me. It was folly.”  
  
          “It’s folly for many reasons,” Maevar said gruffly. “Stannis made the lords of the crownland’s coast abandon the Seven to follow his Lord of Light, if you’ll remember. Our king and queen being of the Seven will win over many lords who despised Stannis’s false faith. And a true marriage under the Seven is of one wife and one husband. No more.”  
  
          More discussions followed that one, but Dany found herself too distraught to speak up much more. Dany had known Aegon the Conqueror had taken two wives, and that his son Maegor had taken three, but never had the thought seemed as mad to her as it did then. How could their wives have beared it? How could they have beared _sharing_ their husband? How could they have beared being only one of two, or only one of _three?  
_  
          While Dany sat silent, Baegon suggested using the vacant position on the Kingsguard as a political favor. Lucas refused, mentioning Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, and saying he wanted men he could trust. Ser Barristan spoke up for the first time and said it was wise of Lucas to reject using the Kingsguard politically. Then Lucas talked of betrothing Aly and Jace, preferably to a Stark and a Martell. Lord Varys explained the current situations in the north and in Dorne, that the only Starks in Winterfell were a ‘Lady Sansa’ and a ‘Jon Snow,’ and that Dorne’s young Prince Trystane was betrothed to Cersei’s daughter Myrcella, who had recently been maimed in some conspiratory plot gone sour. Lucas was not pleased with either situation, but he vowed to write both the Starks and the Martells.  
  
          When the meeting came to a close and everyone began to rise from their seats, Dany was glad to be done. She and Lucas bid farewell to the others and waited for them to depart before they followed suit. Ser Barristan, Ser Aerar, Ser Stallan, and Ser Lezero all fell in around Dany and Lucas as they left the chamber and started down the hall.  
  
          Then, at the muffled sound of a distant roar, Dany went to the nearest window. After a moment of searching about with her eyes, she found Dreamwing in the skies soaring above and around the castle. _She’s seeking me,_ Dany realized. _Had she sensed my distress?_  
  
          Lucas came to Dany’s side and put a hand on her hip. “Go to her. Maybe take Jace too? He’d love that. I’ll see you again soon.”  
  
          Dany nodded. After exchanging a kiss and I-love-you’s with her husband, she parted from him and went to fetch Jace. The Sers Barristan and Nakarro went with Lucas, while the Sers Stallan and Lezero went with Dany.  
  
          Dany returned to her bedchamber. She checked on Aly, and saw that she was sleeping. Jace was quick to agree to see Dreamwing, jumping up and down at the very mention of her. He allowed his mother to take his hand. To spare the gigantic Ser Joreus several unbroken hours of standing watch over an infant, Dany swapped him with Ser Lezero. Dany did not like leaving Aly with only one knight, but she had to be practical. With Ser Brachar killed at Casterly Rock, there were only six men in the Kingsguard. And though Dany loved both of her little ones the same ... Jace was the heir, not Aly.  
  
          It was a long walk just to be off High Tide’s vast grounds. The air was even chillier outside the castle, and the breezes from the narrow sea only made it colder still. But Dany was dressed for it, and she’d ensured that Jace was too. Still the sky above was deep blue and cloudless. Dreamwing circled far overhead in that sea of the sky, waiting for Dany to arrive somewhere with enough space for her to comfortably land.  
  
          At High Tide’s rear, far below the castle proper, Dany descended the final stone staircase to a broad and windswept beach of pale, peach-colored sand. Far off on the horizon were a handful of deep-sea fishing ships, appearing tiny to Dany’s eyes. Each fishing ship was guarded by a carrack of the Free Legion’s fleet, protecting them from pirates, of which the narrow sea was rife with. Fishing vessels were of scarce plunder, but the Free Legion’s fleet had little else to do at the moment. And Dany knew it would be good for legionnaires to make a show of keeping the people of Driftmark safe.  
  
          Dany stopped at the last step of the staircase and sat herself and Jace down for a moment. She took off first Jace’s little shoes, and then her own. Once they were barefoot, she walked with him onto the beach. Though the breezes were chilly, the soft sand was decently warm, heated by the bright sun. The feel of it was a delight to Dany’s feet. Great gusts blew back her and Jace’s hair as Dreamwing beat her violet wings to slow her descent and allow herself a gentle landing. The moment the she-dragon sunk her white diamond claws into the sand, Jace sprinted towards her, crying out, “Dweam!”  
  
          Dreamwing shut her eyes as Jace collided into the side of her head and hugged her. For a moment he stayed like that, enjoying the she-dragon’s endless warmth, but his boyish energy would not be stifled for long. With a great deal of effort, grunting all the way, Jace climbed atop Dreamwing’s lowered head, till he was sitting on the broad top of her head between her brows. Dreamwing only blinked. She was always content to allow Jace to have his fun atop her.  
  
          Dany sat on folded knees beside her dragon. The sand gathered on the skirt of her gown, but she cared not. It could be cleaned or patted down by servants later. She reached for the great gentle beast and touched her hand to Dreamwing’s snout. The scales were harder than steel, but the intense heat rolling from them was immensely soothing. Dreamwing’s golden eyes met Dany’s, gazing into hers. For a moment, Dany lost herself in those lakes of molten gold. _I wish you could speak,_ Dany thought. _You know me better than the other women here._  
  
          Jace was now crawling across Dreamwing’s back. “Careful, Jace,” Dany called out to her restless boy. Though the beach’s sand was soft, Jace could still injure himself if he fell from atop the dragon. But Dreamwing would not allow that. Whenever the she-dragon felt the little boy atop her scamper too close to one side of her, she would slightly shift in the opposite direction, urging Jace closer to the middle of her back, ensuring that he would not tumble off of her.  
  
          “Your Grace,” a distant voice called out.  
  
          Dany twisted around just in time to see the two Kingsguard knights farthest back hastily ready their hands on their swords. Waiting before them was the plump, hairless, and velvet-swaddled Lord Varys, standing at the bottom step of the stone staircase. Dany had not heard him approach, and evidently neither had the knights guarding her.  
  
          “Keep your distance,” spat Ser Joreus in Westeros’s Common Tongue.  
  
          “Lord Varys is our master of whisperers. Let him through,” Dany commanded.  
  
          “I know the look and stench of this one’s kind, Your Grace,” Ser Joreus replied, speaking Bastard Valyrian now. “It is a eunuch. Eunuchs are not to be trusted.” He loosed a few inches of his sword from his scabbard, the steel briefly hissing. “Give me the command and I will strike off its head.”  
  
          Dany had grown sick of so many creating so much trouble about Varys. “Well I _do_ trust him, and my command is for you to be silent and _let him through!”_  
  
          Ser Joreus re-sheathed the last of his sword and stepped aside. Varys only smiled at the knight as he walked past.  
  
          Dany let out a long sigh. “Do you always move so silently, Lord Varys?” she asked as he approached. “It seems to only bring you trouble.”  
  
          “Oh, sometimes I move quite loudly, Your Grace, if it suits the face. Those days, it is I who seeks the trouble.”  
  
          Dany was confused. “Whose face?”  
  
          “Mine own.”  
  
          That only confused Dany further, but she would not press him on it.  
  
          Varys came closer to Dreamwing and circled around her. Dreamwing paid him little mind, unafraid and unbothered. “I had expected dragons to be more ... ferocious,” Varys mused.  
  
          “Rhaegon is. He’s as fiery as the flames he breathes. And Skyshark is too, to a lesser extent ... but not Dreamwing.” Dany ran a hand over the milky scales of Dreamwing’s chin. “Dreamwing is ...”  
  
          “Motherly,” Varys finished for her. “Like you. And I’ve found that mothers can be ferocious too.”  
  
          Dany smiled, laughed, and nodded. “That they can.”  
  
          “Did you name them all?” Varys asked.  
  
          “Two of them. Lucas named Rhaegon.”  
  
          “May I ask how you chose their names?”  
  
          Dany looked to Varys. A breeze flicked a lock of her hair before her eyes, and she had to brush it away. “I dreamt of them, many times. I named them for how I foresaw them. Dreamwing I dreamt of most of all. I was always astride her. Skyshark I dreamt of always soaring above the seas. Rhaegon I dreamt of being ridden by Lucas, and so I asked that he name him. He named him after my brother, Rhaegar. He told me Rhaegon would be Rhaegar’s vengeance.”  
  
          Varys gave an understanding nod. “Doubtless His Grace idolized Rhaegar when he was a boy. Many young lordlings did, as well as many of the smallfolk. Such a shame, his death.” Varys’s gaze went from Dreamwing to Jace atop her. “This prince will be a dragonrider someday, I can see,” he said, pointing a powdered finger at the boy at play. “I’ve heard many here say that he will be a talented rider like his namesake, but they speak of horses, and they forget that he is a Targaryen in blood. A Targaryen’s true steed is not a horse. This one will ride a dragon anywhere and everywhere. Young Prince Jace will be the next dragonknight.”  
  
          Dany briefly considered asking if Varys had children of his own, but then she remembered what everyone had been saying about him. As Dany stroked Dreamwing’s scales, the question came out of her. “Lord Varys, is it true that ... you have no ...”  
  
          “Manhood? I’m afraid so. Is that hard for you to believe? I did not think it would be. You’ve spent a great deal of time around a eunuch these past two years, after all.”  
  
          Dany’s brow furrowed. “I have?”  
  
          “Your husband’s loyal steward Tobas Bideer was cut by a savage criminal when he was a boy. You did not know?”  
  
          Dany shook her head weakly, stricken with both sadness and confusion. “No one told me.”  
  
          “His Grace’s father sentenced the criminal to life at the Wall himself. He had his own maester tend to the young Tobas’s wound. From what I understand, he is not wholly emasculated, but he cannot function as a man. Have you ever wondered why those three servants were willing to accompany your husband and his father when they fled to Volantis?” Varys turned his head and gazed out over the narrow sea. “Tobas Bideer: a man who can bear no children, who only knows how to serve his lord. Elayna Tavner: a woman of wavering wits who was mocked by many, but was given duty and respect by her lord. Clare Chaembers: a mourning mother who saw her lord’s son as her own child after her true son was slain in the Sacking of King’s Landing.” Varys looked back to Dany and stepped closer. “The strongest loyalties are the ones gained in solace from suffering. It’s why those three are so devoted to their king ... and it’s why you are as well.”  
  
          Dany frowned and looked back to Dreamwing. The she-dragon’s golden gaze was a soft and soothing one, as if sensing her sadness.  
  
          Dany had never truly realized how much sorrow, pain, and loss their household in Volantis had been built upon. She had thought suffering Viserys’s cruelties to be a great horror ... but she had not been born with a mutable mind, nor had she ever been maimed between the legs, nor had she ever lost a child. Viserys’s wickedness, his screaming, his pulling of Dany’s hair, his striking of her, it all seemed trivial in comparison. _I’ve not known suffering,_ Dany thought with shame. _They’ve known suffering._ “How did you learn all this?” Dany asked quietly.  
  
          “My little birds sing to me from all across the known world, Your Grace. If a thought is put to words, the odds are good that I will hear it.”  
  
          After a long moment and a deep breath, Dany looked to Varys again. “My husband says you’ve ensured my safety all this time. Is that true?”  
  
          “I’ve done all I could manage, yes.”  
  
          “Then you have my thanks, my lord. And you can consider me your friend.”  
  
          “Your thanks are most appreciated, Your Grace, and I will treasure your friendship always. But ... you should know ... you aren’t the only Targaryen I’ve safeguarded.”  
  
          “Do you mean Viserys?” Dany asked.  
  
          Varys shook his head. “And as fate would have it, the other that I’ve guarded has returned to Westeros the same month as you. Truth be told, I had prepared plans to serve either of you ... but when you somehow hatched those dragon eggs Lucas’s father had whisked away from Dragonstone, you made my decision an easy one.”  
  
          Dany was growing more confused by the second. “Who is this other Targaryen?”  
  
          “He has gone by the false name Griff, but he is Aegon, son of your eldest brother Rhaegar. Your nephew. He is thought to have died when Tywin Lannister sacked King’s Landing, but I had replaced him in his crib with a smallfolk’s babe and sent him to Essos. His claim to the Iron Throne is truer than yours.”  
  
          Dany felt a sudden dread pluck at her heart. _His claim is truer?_ she thought fearfully. Did that mean that he could shatter all that Lucas and Dany had built, that he could endanger their family, their children?  
  
          Varys must’ve seen the fear in Dany’s eyes. “Worry not, sweet queen,” he reassured her. “During the Dance of Dragons two centuries ago, House Velaryon backed a Targaryen with the lesser claim over the truer one. They will do so again when they learn of Aegon. Your husband’s family will stand with you.”  
  
          Dany had been taught about the Dance of Dragons, when Targaryens battled themselves in a terrible civil war where dragon killed dragon and brother killed sister.  
  
          “Does he have dragons?” Dany asked.  
  
          “No,” Varys answered at once.  
  
          Dany sighed with relief. This would be no Dance of Dragons. Dany and Lucas would annihilate this Aegon if he dared to attack them.  
  
          “Your Free Legion is an army of former slaves. Aegon is backed by the Golden Company, an army of sellswords. Consider this, Your Grace: which do you think is a friendlier sight? An army of former slaves who follow out of gratitude and loyalty, or an army of cutthroat sellswords who follow because they are paid? In the eyes of the smallfolk, which army makes for a more ... palatable occupation?”  
  
          Dany nodded slowly, following Varys’s thought exactly. “The Free Legion.”  
  
          Varys gave a small smile. “There are ten thousand men in the Golden Company. There are twenty thousand in your Free Legion. The sellswords have many more years of experience than your legionnaires, but ...” Varys paused as he glanced at Dreamwing, “Aegon has no dragons. His cause is a doomed one. Still, I will visit him. He will think me an ally, and I was, once.”  
  
          “What will you do when you go to him?”  
  
          Varys looked to Dany. “Advise that he leave. If he can be convinced to abandon his cause, then he will leave with his life, and you and your husband’s march to King’s Landing will be swifter and smoother. If not, I fear that your armies will meet on the field.”  
  
          “Let them,” Dany said. “If he means to threaten us, he can meet the same fate as all the others before him.”  
  
          “And perhaps he will. But I don’t long for the death and destruction that such a battle will bring.”  
  
          “Can I tell Lucas of this, of Aegon?” Dany asked, forgetting herself. _Of course I can,_ she thought. _I’m the queen. I must remember that._  
  
          “Of course, sweet queen. I would never ask that you withhold anything from your beloved. You are to do as you see fit. After all, to the smallfolk, it is _you_ who is considered the sole ruler. I only withheld this during the meeting because I wanted to give you and your husband the choice of whether to admit Aegon’s blood or to label him a pretender. His Grace prefers honesty, much like his father always did. He will not shy from acknowledging Aegon’s identity. He is confident that most will follow the Targaryen with the dragons, and he is right to be.”  
  
          Despite all that was said after, Dany found herself hanging on what Varys said of the smallfolk. “What you said about the smallfolk, how do you know that? We’ve only been here for a day.”  
  
          “Though I have many little birds in my employ, I often try to hear talk with my own ears. I am quite adept at hiding in plain sight, believe it or not. This morning, I listened to many of the people of this city. Your arrival yesterday evening left quite the impression on them. The older smallfolk are eager to return to the peace and prosperity of Targaryen rule, as your husband suggested. The young ones are simply eager to be among dragons.”  
  
          “Are they ... fond of me?” Dany asked, suddenly feeling girlishly shy.  
  
          “Fond, no, not yet. Hopeful, yes. When I return, I will aid you in fostering their fondness. Your eldest brother Rhaegar was beloved by the smallfolk, Your Grace. It would be wonderful if they loved you the same as they did him. But on that note, I should be off. I bid you farewell, Your Grace.” Varys bowed, turned away, and started off, softly shuffling his slipper-clad feet.  
  
          “Take care, Lord Varys,” Dany said.  
  
          “You have my word that I will,” Varys replied.  
  
          Shortly thereafter, Dany heard Dreamwing’s massive stomach let out a loud rumble. Dany commanded her she-dragon to leave, freeing her from Jace’s play to let her go find a beast to fill her belly with. Jace fussed a little when Dany said that it was time to go, but he soon complied. After Dany helped him down, Dreamwing took to the skies. Dany took Jace’s hand, put on their shoes, and then started up the nearby staircase.  
  
          After that, the evening came quick. Lucas found Dany and suggested for them to have a private sup that evening, with only themselves, Jace and Aly. Dany would’ve loved that, but she felt compelled to insist that Maevar join them, to speak with him on the matter that Dany had told Vaenya she would. Lucas did not object. When Dany checked on Aly, she found her asleep again in her crib, watched by Elayna and guarded by Ser Nakarro. Only when she saw her daughter safe did Dany leave for supper.  
  
          A table and four chairs were brought into Dany’s and Lucas’s bedchamber. The table was then swiftly set, adorned with a long cloth and various utensils. The fourth chair was taller and narrower than the others, and was encircled by a wooden guard. It was for Jace. “Our prince’s own throne,” Lucas called it in jest. Once he, Dany, Maevar, and Jace were all seated, plates of food were hurriedly brought before them, one after the other. The main course was a roasted quail stuffed with mushrooms and resting on a bed of cabbage. The other offerings surrounding the quail were honey-glazed ham, two wheels of white cheese, a thick pea soup, and a bowl of fat purple grapes. The refreshments were boiled and chilled water and more of the spiced Dornish wine that Dany and Lucas had enjoyed the night prior. For Jace there was another serving, made special for him: skinless capon meat diced into tiny cubes of moist morsels that posed little choking hazard. Lucas opted first for a cut of the honeyed ham, Dany for the pea soup, and Maevar a large leg of quail. Jace’s fork was special too. It was blunter than the others and had shorter prongs. He speared the capon cubes one at a time.  
  
          The conversation regarding Vaenya’s request was surprisingly brief, so brief that it was over as soon as it began. When Dany asked that Maevar halt his plan to betroth Vaenya to Stanler Mooton, Maevar plainly replied that the betrothal to Stanler was a mere consideration that Vaenya had overblown and overreacted to, and that he knew more suitors would appear as more lords swore to Dany and Lucas. That was the end of it. With little else to chat about after that, Dany regretted including Maevar into what could’ve been a relaxingly intimate meal with her husband and son.  
  
          Soon the plates were cleaned and the goblets were drained. When all were finished supping, the remaining food was sent away, and the table and chairs were all removed from the chamber. Maevar departed, Lucas took Jace to play with him for a bit before bed, and Dany ordered for Elayna to be summoned.  
  
          A little while later, as nightfall fast approached, Dany sat naked on a thin, plain sheet spread over her bed, her legs open. The sheet was to prevent a mess. Seated on a stool in front of Dany was Elayna, who was leaning close as she took small, silver shears to the bush of silver-blonde hairs between Dany’s legs. Dany’s shorthairs had grown a little too unwieldly during the fleet’s voyage from Pentos, and she wanted them groomed down.  
  
          “Will you lay together tonight?” Elayna asked between snips. She meant, of course, ‘will Lucas bed you?’  
  
          Perhaps ‘will your husband bed you’ would’ve been an inappropriate question from any other maidservant, but Elayna was more to Dany than that. For two years, Elayna and Clare had been the only two other women Dany knew. They’d grown close. Elayna could often be awkward, but Dany could be awkward sometimes too. As to Elayna’s question, Lucas had already bedded Dany the night prior, but that was in an ... unusual way, in an ... odd place. She still felt a little slippery back there. She was looking forward to laying together the proper way again, to taking Lucas inside her where a wife was most meant to take her husband. “I think so,” Dany said, smiling at the thought. “Clare said to wait a week. A week’s been waited. I’ll try to entice him. I don’t think it’ll be hard.”  
  
          Elayna giggled fiercely, as though she were a fourth of her age. “I don’t think it will be either. Clare always told me men are easy to entice. I’m just bad at it.”  
  
          “Well, some men might not be easy. I’ve only known one ... in that way,” Dany said. Meaning, ‘ _in bed.’  
_  
          Elayna looked up at Dany’s eyes. There was a surprising thoughtfulness in her gaze. “And may it always stay that way,” she said.  
  
          Dany nodded, still smiling. “May it always stay that way.”  
  
          Elayna returned to her busywork with the silver shorthairs before her. “I’ve only lay with one man too,” she noted.  
  
          “Who was he?” Dany asked, curious.  
  
          “A glassblower’s son. This was a long, long, long time ago. Before I had white in my hair. I told him I wasn’t good at talking. He said that was alright, because he wasn’t either.”  
  
          Dany smiled and laughed, warmed by the cuteness of that. “That’s sweet. What was he like?”  
  
          Dany had meant the question to ask of the boy as a person, but Elayna took it otherwise. “It hurt, but in a good way,” she said. “I bled a lot. I didn’t get a baby from it.”  
  
          “Oh.” Dany tilted her head, still curious. “What happened to him? Did you two marry?”  
  
          “We never married. He got killed a month later. He was travelling through the Kingswood with his father. The gang of bad men there robbed and killed them.”  
  
          Dany’s smile and warmth from earlier vanished, chased off by a sudden sadness. “I’m ... so sorry.”  
  
          “It’s alright,” Elayna said. She smiled again, unfazed. “He’s with the Seven now. Just like Clare.”  
  
          Dany nodded slowly. “Yes.” She wished she was as sure in faith as Elayna was.  
  
          When Elayna finished, Dany patted down her crotch, freeing any loose hairs that still remained. With the grooming done, she stood onto her feet, allowing Elayna to gather up the sheet into one big bunch and remove it. Below, the bed furs remained spotless. Dany went to redress herself.  
  
          Later, when night fell, Dany walked with Lucas and Jace as they returned to the wing of High Tide that housed their bedchambers. Lucas carried Jace at his right hip. Jace was already getting difficult for Dany to carry for more than ten or so minutes, but Lucas’s strong arms had no difficulty lifting Dany, much less a seventeen-month-old boy.  
  
          First Lucas and Dany took Jace to his bed and tucked him in. Their boy was bid goodnight by a kiss on the cheek from his mother and one on the forehead from his father. Next, Lucas and Dany checked on Aly together. She was napping yet again. That meant it was all but a certainty that Aly would awake shortly after Dany fell asleep, but such were newborns. It could not be helped.  
  
          As Dany and Lucas walked down the last of the hall to their chamber door, something occurred to Dany. Though her Targaryen blood lived on through Jace and Aly, the Targaryen name remained only with Dany and this ‘Aegon.’ And if this Aegon insisted on meeting her forces on the field, then he would die, and Dany would be the last. The Targaryen blood would live on, but the name would disappear, forever. She wondered if her ancestors would be angered by that. _I don’t care if they would be,_ Dany decided. _  
_  
          In the hall, Dany and Lucas passed three Kingsguard knights: the Sers Barristan, Nakarro, and Stallan. The Kingsguard were to stand watch in this hall every night, rotating shifts. Dany had commanded them to periodically check on the little ones as they slept, and to fetch her at once if either of them awoke crying.  
  
          Within their bedchamber, the dual hearths’ fires were already lit, breathing their heat and crackling quietly behind glass. Once the door was locked behind them, Lucas stripped swiftly down to his linen breeches, went to their bed, and wearily fell across it. True to his word, Lucas had ordered that their bed be replaced during the day, and what was there now was an even larger bedframe fashioned from a more light brown wood.  
  
          Dany pulled off her sandals, went to her armoire, and changed into a white, silk nightgown with a low neckline, wearing only her silver underskirt beneath. She crawled onto their bed, lay beside Lucas, and rested her head atop his chest. “Tired?” she asked after a time of wordless quiet.  
  
          “Yes,” Lucas admitted. “But I never heard my father complain, so I won’t either.”  
  
          “Your father wasn’t a king,” Dany reminded him caringly.  
  
          “True.” Suddenly, Lucas rolled over and jabbed his hands into the bed at each side of Dany, so that he held himself above her. “Do you fancy me more as a king? A real king?” he asked as he gazed down at her, a playful glint in his pale blue eyes. There was almost as much a smirk in those eyes as there was on his lips.  
  
          Dany smiled up at him. “I’ll love you no matter what you are,” she said. Yet ... as she gazed up at Lucas ... the doubt and worry from earlier that day crept back into her heart, stealing her smile from her lips. “Lucas,” she began, “did you consider taking another wife, when the maester asked?”  
  
          Lucas’s smirk was stolen away too. He furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. _“Gods no,”_ he said. A lock of his wavy, brown hair fell before his face, obscuring his eyes. Dany gathered that stray lock in her hand and held it aside, so that she could see Lucas’s eyes again. “Did you really fear I would?” he asked.  
  
          Dany wished she knew for sure that he wouldn’t, that he’d _never,_ but ... “You’re always doing things because it’s ‘your duty,’” she mused. “I wasn’t sure if taking another wife would be another duty.”  
  
          Lucas rolled off her. He sat straight on their bed’s edge. Dany did the same. Lucas turned and faced her. There was utter bewilderment in his eyes. “What right would I have?” he asked.  
  
          Dany could only shrug. There was no sense in her fear, she knew that, but these thoughts were horrid to her all the same.  
  
          “Dany, _you_ were the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Not I. Before I learned you still lived, my best hopes were only to return home, to be allowed a place again in this land. But with you ... we can do more than live here again. We can _fix_ this. All of this. And we _must_. We can have Targaryen blood sitting on the Iron Throne for centuries more, we can punish the betrayers and murderers. And we can do this all because of you. It was I who guided us here, Dany, but you were the how, and you were the why. Make no mistake, I do all I do because _Daenerys Targaryen_ is my wife. If not for you, we wouldn’t be setting things right ... and more importantly ... we wouldn’t have Jace and Aly.”  
  
          Dany felt warmth bloom in her chest, chasing away the fears that had latched there. A smile came to her lips.  
  
          “Dany,” Lucas went on, “my father often told me he was grateful for my mother. Now I know how he felt. Because I am grateful for you.”  
  
          Dany’s heart fluttered. “I’m grateful for you too.” Lucas’s words from a moment ago came to her mind. ‘All I do,’ he’d said. And so much that was. “How are you so good at it?” Dany suddenly asked.  
  
          “Good at what?”  
  
          “Leading. Commanding.”  
  
          Lucas shrugged. He turned his head away and gazed off. Dany knew at once who her husband began thinking of. “I wasn’t born good at it,” he said. “My father taught me. Taught me, and showed me. Seeing something is a much greater teacher than simply being told it.” Lucas looked back to Dany, to her eyes. “Ser Willem kept you safe and sheltered, and I’d give him a thousand thanks for that if he still lived, but he didn’t teach you to lead. He couldn’t have. He couldn’t have _shown_ you. A master-at-arms is no lord. Much less a king. But you’re getting there, Dany. Over these two years together I’ve seen you grow stronger and stronger. I’ve seen you shout orders like you _never_ would have when we first wedded. Ser Nakarro explained to me why only he accompanied you to the small council’s chamber earlier. He told me you’d commanded Ser Aerar with ‘fury like a dragon.’” Lucas smiled and chuckled. He took Dany’s hands and clasped his own around them. “Do you remember what I told you our first night together? There’s only two true living dragons. You, and I.’”  
  
          Dany’s smile widened. “There are three more dragons now,” she said.  
  
          “I count five more. Rhaegon, Dreamwing, Skyshark, Jacaerys, Aelyssa. And the same woman gave life to them all.”  
  
          Dany giggled. “With your help.”  
  
          “With my help,” Lucas agreed. “We’re in this together, Dany. Queen, and king. You, and I.”  
  
          “And the little ones,” Dany said.  
  
          Lucas nodded. “And the little ones.”  
  
          “And the dragons.”  
  
          Lucas chuckled. _“And_ the dragons.”  
  
          Dany raised one of her hands and cupped Lucas’s cheek. “Promise me.”  
  
          Lucas’s gaze was deep and true. “I promise.”  
  
          Dany wanted Lucas to kiss her then, to feel his lips press against hers, to feel his hands run through her hair, to feel his breath upon her face ... and a heartbeat later, he granted her it all.  
  
          Without another word, Lucas leaned closer and took into Dany a passionate kiss. Their lips entwined and caught, then released with an audible smack, and then came together that same way all over again, like a dance. For a time they kissed with only their mingling lips, filling the bedchamber with that passionate song of soft smacks, but that time was short. Only moments later, when Lucas’s lips next returned, his tongue came with them. Dany’s mouth opened for it, welcoming its coming. Her tongue was no match for the aggression of her husband’s; his swirled around and muscled down hers. Soon the saliva in Dany’s mouth was no more her own than it was Lucas’s.  
  
          A lustful heat flushed through Dany, gathering in her breasts and loins. A sudden, sweet moan left her through her open lips. Dany still held Lucas’s face, but her other hand she raised and used to grab a fistful of his thick, brown hair, holding the locks tight. Of no surprise, Lucas soon hungered for more than Dany’s mouth. She felt one of his strong hands slip down the neck of her nightgown. His hand roamed from one of Dany’s soft breasts to the other, groping them both. Though Dany’s breasts were slightly more swollen now that she was a mother, they were still somewhat smallish. But Lucas never seemed to mind. He could play with them endlessly, cupping them in his palms, enjoying the feel of their softness and warmth.  
  
          Then, in a blurred whirl of motion, Dany was suddenly standing beside their bed. Lucas had grabbed her small waist, lifted her, and set her on her feet in front of him. He grabbed her gown and helped her out of it. When it was gone, Dany stood nigh naked, with only her underskirt on her small, pale figure. Lucas leaned forward and brought his mouth to one of her smallish, perky breasts. He took her bright-pink nipple between his lips and suckled it, pulling it taut with his hollowing cheeks. Dany felt pressure leave her breast, and a tingling warmth. Lucas only sought a brief taste. After a few suckles, he let her breast fall from his mouth. He leaned over and suckled a few squirts from Dany’s other breast as well. Once Lucas had his fill, he brought his lips to hers and kissed her again. Dany got a fleeting taste of her own milk from his tongue. It was creamy and sweet.  
  
          Lucas broke their kiss and stood up. Being a foot taller than her, Dany’s eyes were level with his chest, and thus it was all too easy for her to stare at it. He was well-muscled. Lucas had been lean and fit when he and Dany had wedded, but he was more toned now. All the sparring and battles had made him strong, left him more swollen. His upper chest, abdomen, and arms were what Dany delighted in most. Those squares of muscle on his gut were a most mesmerizing sight. He was like the knights and kings of the songs, the men who were supposed to be too sublime to exist: tall, muscular and handsome. Dany could not have cared less that he hadn’t the Valyrian traits of most of the rest of his family, or of her own. It did not make him any less beautiful.  
  
          “I love you,” Dany blurted out. The words had bubbled up within her with a swell of warmth, and she would not keep them down.  
  
          Lucas grabbed her chin with a thumb and forefinger and tilted her head upwards, so that she looked him in his blue eyes. “I love you too.” He leaned down and kissed her. When their lips parted with an audible smack, Lucas grabbed her and lifted her again. Dany locked her legs around his hips. As he held her against him, Lucas climbed onto their bed and shuffled his knees towards its head. He eased Dany down in front of him, laying her on her back, with her head atop one of their down-stuffed pillows. Lucas tugged down his breeches and pulled them off his legs and feet. His manhood sprang free, fully erect. It pointed from his crotch like a spear. It rose from a thicket of curly, brown shorthairs that his sack swayed beneath.  
  
          In the dim and quiet of their bedchamber, in only firelight, with only the sounds of their breath, with no servants buzzing around them, no lords or ladies watching them expectantly, Lucas and Dany weren’t king and queen. They weren’t lord and lady. And with the little ones safely asleep in their beds, they weren’t even father and mother. They were simply husband and wife. And they would do what all husbands and wives were meant to.  
  
          Lucas grabbed the pillow beneath Dany’s head and maneuvered it so that her head was at its center. “Comfortable?” he asked.  
  
          “Yes,” Dany said, smiling. It was a habit of Lucas’s to ensure she was comfortable before he took his pleasure. More so whenever she was heavy with his child.  
  
          Lucas smiled back at her. “Good.” He lowered himself over Dany and gave her another deep kiss, pushing his tongue into her mouth. While they kissed, Dany’s hands roamed her husband’s chest, caressing here, squeezing there. His muscled chest was somewhat hairy, not smooth like a boy, but not ferally unwieldly either. His more unwieldly hairs were farther south.  
  
          Lucas pulled away and went upright, back onto his knees. He slid a hand over Dany’s belly. It was soft and a little pudgy, still somewhat swollen from the endeavor of carrying Aelyssa till only a week ago. Dany’s stomach was flattening faster after this birth than it had after Jace’s, perhaps from how often she was riding Dreamwing, a surprisingly strenuous exercise. Lucas did not seem to mind the slight pudginess of her belly; he gave it a slow, affectionate rub.  
  
          Desiring her as wholly naked as he, Lucas grabbed Dany’s legs and raised them high, holding them against his chest. He took hold of the waistband of her underskirt and pulled on it slowly, stoking his own lust by prolonging the reveal of the place they veiled, of the wet pink he so loved and craved. Strings of moisture clung to Dany’s underskirt as Lucas peeled it from her crotch. That was a rousing sight. Dany reached a hand between her legs and gave herself an experimental touch, and then quietly gasped when she felt how wet her flesh was. She held that same hand before her eyes and opened its fingers. Webs of her lust stretched between them. Dany never lacked wetness with her husband, but she could not remember the last time she had been so ... eager.  
  
          Dany did not doubt the wisdom in waiting to lay together after a birth. In those first days after Aly’s coming, Dany didn’t think she could’ve done it if she wanted to. Her body needed the rest. But it was time now. She could take her husband, and she would.  
  
          When her underskirt was up and off her feet, Lucas held the crotch of it against his face, to his nose. He inhaled deeply. He loved the musk and moistness of Dany’s womanly flesh, and her underskirt was a source of both. Once he’d sated his lust for that, Lucas flicked the underskirt away. He grabbed Dany’s small feet and gave a series of kisses to each of her smooth, soft soles. Dany was ticklish, and she could not help but giggle.  
  
          Lucas lowered Dany’s legs and moved his hands to her thighs, to part them. Dany opened them before he could. She brought them as wide apart as was comfortably possible, creating a great gateway where Lucas could put down his knees and bring his body to hers, where he could enter her and take his pleasure. But he did not use that gateway just yet.  
  
          At first Lucas simply gazed at that waiting, wet pink between Dany’s legs. His eyes almost bulged as he looked upon it, even though it was a place he had seen thousands of times. Dany’s womanhood was a plump peach, and fuzzy like any peach was. Freshly groomed, it was lightly furred with pale gold hair, and was marred only by a single slim pink slit down the middle. That pink slit was so moist it glistened in the warm firelight. Dany could see why her husband loved it so much. It was an appealing sight, even to herself.  
  
          Dany’s peach was ripe and ready for Lucas, as he doubtless saw. The way he hungrily eyed her pinkness, it looked as though he wanted nothing more than to slurp up all her copious, glistening lust. The only reason he would not was the need to leave her slick enough to give himself the smooth passage he required. For Dany’s slit was small, and Lucas’s manhood was large. That slickness would be much needed.  
  
          Lucas shifted down the bed a bit and lowered his head, bringing his face between Dany’s legs. She could feel his warm breath puff from his nose against her sensitive mound and slit. Dany kept her legs held apart as Lucas brought his face to her pinkness. She watched him keenly, yearning for what was to come. Lucas took his time. He gave her puffy peach a few firm pats with his hand, _thwap thwap thwap._ Dany liked the sharpness of the feeling. Next Lucas rubbed two fingers up and down her slick, pink slit. It made wet sounds as he did. Then Lucas spread her with those two fingers, pulling her slit apart. He gazed longingly upon all the shining pinkness between her slim inner lips. When he took his fingers away, her pinkness closed back into the slit it had been.  
  
          Lucas came closer and gave Dany’s pink slit a restrained, innocent kiss. That kiss and the ones that then followed were slow, tender smooches, like a boy kissing his maiden lover. Lucas’s lips would graze her hood and the little pink button it guarded with every kiss. Each one gave Dany a gentle bloom of pleasure. She let out a soft, sighing moan. She loved the feeling of Lucas’s shaved face against her mound. She wondered if he liked the feel of her silver-blonde shorthairs. He seemed to.  
  
          Soon Lucas’s kisses grew deeper and hungrier. They came with a lolled out, lapping tongue. He closed his mouth over Dany’s cleft and pushed his tongue up and through her tight slit, once, then twice, and then many times over. His tongue parted her slim, pink lips every time it smoothly slid through her slick inner flesh. His tongue was hot and wet, much like that which it licked. The smooth brushes of his tongue gave Dany far stronger blooms of pleasure than the kisses had. It was too much for her to remain quiet. Her sighing moans grew sharper. When Lucas suddenly sucked that little button that crowned her slit, she cried out. She could already feel the harp string inside her tightening. Dany realized she had been wanting this as badly as her husband.  
  
          The two years they’d been wedded had made Lucas skilled between Dany’s legs. He knew every little tease and trick that most pleased her. At times, he knew how to pleasure her better than she did. He knew how to touch her with his finger, how to lick her, and how to suck her. That little pink button was the key to her pleasure, as Dany had long ago learned. It was as small as a pea, and yet it was as sensitive as all the rest of her pinkness combined, if not more.  
  
          The pleasure of Lucas’s mouth was only half the joy; watching and hearing it were delights too. In the midst of a series of wet, sucking kisses, Lucas’s pale blue eyes gazed upon Dany’s as his lips closed over her pinkness again and again. Each kiss brought a lick before his lips sucked her, and Dany would always see his tongue just before feeling it. Their chamber was made noisy with the sounds that Lucas feasting between Dany’s legs always made: the smooches when he kissed her, the pops when he tugged her lips with his mouth, Lucas’s deep, rumbling groans, and Dany’s sweet, girlish moans. Lucas grabbed Dany’s legs and closed them around his head, her smooth thighs covering his ears. Dany wondered how much Lucas could still hear through them.  
  
          For her part, Dany also knew a few techniques. She and Lucas had lay together often enough for her to have taught herself some tricks, some for her husband’s benefit, some for her own. One such trick was to know when to be loose, and when to be tense. On the night prior, when Lucas had taken his pleasure in her arse, Dany had relaxed, and stayed loose. To do otherwise would’ve hurt herself, considering where Lucas had been inside her. But in moments like these, when Lucas was kissing her between her legs, pleasuring her, trying to bring her to her end, Dany knew to do the opposite. She tightened her core, loins, and legs, everything below her waist. That tenseness in her loins made the pleasure of her husband kissing and licking her even stronger. Lucas could snap her harp string solely by himself – he’d done it countless times before – but Dany could help him twist it.  
  
          Dany knew Lucas wouldn’t be so skilled at pleasuring her if he didn’t love it. It was a joy for him, that was plain to see, and hear. His gaze was lustful, and gratified groans rumbled out of him just as often as Dany moaned. Kissing, tonguing, and sucking her hot, wet slit delighted him as much as it did her. He of course could not feel the pleasure himself, but he enjoyed the acts as much as Dany did.  
  
          Lucas was both playful and purposeful in the ways he stimulated her. After tilting his head, he sucked the slim lips of Dany’s pink slit within his mouth. He tugged them till they slipped out with a lewdly wet sound, only to then gather them in his mouth again and do it all once more. Dany was panting by then, every exhale a moan. She grasped around herself, clutching at the bed furs. Lucas circled her pink button with his warm tongue, and then began jabbing at it, smothering it for a half-second each time. Dany’s toes curled. When Lucas planted his lips directly over her sensitive button, when he alternated between sucking it taut and lashing it with his tongue, the pleasure suddenly proved too much. Dany’s harp string snapped.  
  
          With that snap came a wave of hot pleasure so strong that it rocked Dany’s body, making all her muscles clench tight. She shot forward, sitting up as her thighs squeezed around Lucas’s head. That wave of blissful pleasure was followed by another, and then another. Dany grabbed Lucas’s thick, brown hair and held the wavy locks between her fingers as every last muscle in her body clenched and released. It was a wonder she was not crunching her husband’s head between her legs.  
  
          When the last wave had left her and her buzzing flesh calmed, Dany released Lucas’s hair and fell onto her back, collapsing atop their bed with a heavy _oomph._ She let out a deep sigh. That might’ve been the fastest she’d ever finished.  
  
          Dany’s eyes fell shut. As they were closed, she felt her husband’s lips against hers. She opened her mouth for him, to let his tongue enter it and play with hers. She could taste her wetness on his tongue. It was almost sour, in a good way.  
  
          When Dany opened her eyes, Lucas’s opened as well. “I love you,” Dany said.  
  
          “I love you too,” Lucas replied. He gave Dany another kiss, but then pulled away not long later. He rose again onto his knees and scooted closer. Dany was expecting him to lie over her then, to thrust inside her, but instead he scooted further up, bringing his manhood to her head. He wanted her mouth before he bedded her, she realized.  
  
          Dany held up her head and opened her mouth so swiftly that her lips made a soft _pop_ as they parted. She took Lucas’s long manhood into her mouth and sealed her lips around the middle of his spear’s shaft. His swollen crown pressed against the flat of her tongue. It had leaked a single droplet of early seed, and Dany tasted it at once. It was salty.  
  
          Dany bobbed her head back and forth, dragging that soft seal of her lips back and forth along his stiff length, letting the underside of his manhood slide against her tongue. She could feel him getting even stiffer, as hard as steel. Dany knew how to properly pleasure her husband with her mouth. She knew to plump and pucker her lips, not to purse them, and she knew to use her tongue as she sucked him, not to waste it by letting it stay still. She could even take the entirety of him into her mouth, to the point that his crown entered the back of her throat. It had taken Dany many months of practice, but she could now do so without a single gag.  
  
          Dany swiftly stroked Lucas’s manhood with her mouth, moving her lips from the flare of his crown to the bramble of brown shorthairs at his root with every bob of her head. There were wet, rapid _slurps_ as she sucked her husband off, and there was a soft _pop_ whenever her sealed lips accidentally traveled so far that they broke away from his tip. She brushed the underside of his length up and down with the flat of her tongue, knowing how sensitive it was. Soon she tasted another, bigger droplet of early seed that oozed out of him. It was a flash of saltiness.  
  
          Lucas reached down and petted Dany’s head as she sucked him. He ran his hand through her long hair, letting the smooth, silver-blonde locks slide between his fingers. Dany turned her gaze upwards, looking Lucas in his pale blue eyes. She made a sweet expression with her face, inner eyebrows arched up, eyes big and innocent; she knew her husband loved that. When Dany’s bobbing head prompted a lock of her hair to fall before her face, Lucas was quick to brush it aside and keep it held away.  
  
          Dany often wondered which Lucas liked better, her mouth, or the pink between her legs. Both were warm, both were wet, both had lips. Sometimes she considered asking him, but then she’d always think it to be a stupid question. Reason said that if his seed had to go between her legs to put a baby in her belly, then surely that would’ve felt best.  
  
          Only a few minutes had passed when Lucas held Dany’s bobbing head to a stop, ceasing her efforts. Often he sought her mouth for longer, but this was no usual tryst, she knew. After all, it had been more than a week since he was last inside her pinkness, the place he so loved and treasured. It seemed he wished to wait no longer before entering it.  
  
          Lucas shuffled back down to Dany’s lower half. He planted his knees between her open legs, grabbed her by the hips, and pulled her close to him with one strong heave. Dany’s head slipped from the pillow it had been resting on, so she grabbed it and brought it back below her. She reached into her mouth and pulled out a brown hair that been bothering her. It was a short, curly hair. Dany casually flicked it away. Lucas did not fuss whenever he found a silver shorthair in his mouth, so Dany would not fuss either.  
  
          Dany’s thighs rested over Lucas’s. Their crotches touched, his stiff manhood lying across the mound above her slit. Dany knew she was only a moment from Lucas entering her. She took her bottom lip between her teeth while she watched him.  
  
          Lucas pulled back his hips, like a crossbow cocking. He aimed himself, aligning his manhood with Dany’s pinkness. He grazed the lower end of her slit with his crown, and that touch alone was enough to smear himself with her wetness. It would only take a push of his hips now.  
  
          “Take your pleasure,” Dany pleaded, her words as soft and sweet as a kiss.  
  
          Lucas’s blue eyes flicked up at hers. His gaze met Dany’s for only a moment before he looked back down, to their sexes. At last, he gave his hips that needed push.  
  
          Dany’s little pink slit opened around Lucas’s thick crown as it entered her. Despite the difference in size, her slickness gave him easy passage. He entered her slowly, his stiff manhood sliding smoothly inside her. Dany could feel that swollen crown parting her inner walls as it pushed further in. A strong, familiar feeling of pure _fullness_ pervaded Dany as Lucas sheathed his manhood inside her. She almost shuddered at the pleasure of such thick stiffness sliding through such snug pinkness. He pushed his hips further and further, till at last he bottomed out inside her. Lucas’s forest of coarse, earthy-brown shorthairs swept over Dany’s silver-blonde, neatly trimmed ones. Below, she could feel his sack pressed against her arse. When her husband was fully sheathed inside her, as small as Dany was, it almost seemed as though his manhood reached inside her up to her navel. But it no longer amazed her that something so large could fully enter something so small. Their bodies were made to join perfectly. They were meant for each other. Dany was convinced of that.  
  
          Dany figured that if _she_ felt so stuffed, then, to Lucas, she must’ve felt so tight. That must’ve given him pleasure like nothing else, and Dany delighted in that. “Is it good?” she asked sweetly as she gazed up at him. She already knew the answer, but she wanted to hear her husband say it.  
  
          “Yes,” Lucas breathed. He began with thrusts that were slow and sensual and loving. Being on his knees, his hands were free to explore Dany, and that’s what they did. His hands glided over her body, roaming her soft, smooth flesh. He groped her smallish breasts, caressed her pudgy belly, and took hold of her narrow waist, which he could almost fully wrap his hands around, with thumbs almost touching. Eventually, he grabbed Dany’s hands and held them. Dany smiled when he did. Lucas smiled back at her. He looked down to their crotches. He watched Dany’s pink, gaping slit slowly swallow his long, thick stiffness over and over, pushing and pulling inside her snug sheath. At the end of every pull, just before Lucas pushed back inside, for a fleeting moment he and Dany could see her pink inner flesh clinging to him. With the lips of her slit grasping his shaft, she was gripping him inside and out.  
  
          Then Lucas’s thrusts were a little faster and heartier and needier. His stiffness speared her at a steadier pace, pushing in and out, in and out. Dany whimpered at sweet pleasure of it. Lucas began grunting, almost like a beast. Some thrusts were punctuated with a grunt, while others were not. Sometimes a series of particularly forceful thrusts would all accompanied by those gratified grunts. With those heartier thrusts, Dany’s smallish, perky breasts began lightly swaying on her chest, moving in smooth, fleshy motions, her little bright-pink nipples dancing around. Of course, Lucas’s eyes soon caught on those little pink nubs. A few heartbeats after looking upon her swaying breasts, he released Dany’s hands and grabbed her breasts. He squeezed them in both hands, admiring their warmth, their softness, and perhaps even their petiteness. After a few squeezes, they leaked a trickle of milk.  
  
          Then Lucas’s thrusts were furious and crazed and lustful. Flesh noisily slapped flesh each time their thighs collided. Lucas shifted his hands to Dany’s wide hips, where he held her tight as he pumped his stiffness in and out of her slit at a rapid pace. He grunted with almost every thrust. At the same time, Dany’s whimpers had turned to moans. Her breasts were furiously rocked by Lucas’s thrusts, bouncing up and down on her chest. Not much time had passed between those first slow thrusts and these furious ones. Lucas wanted all the pleasure he could get, and he wanted it quick. Dany would give it to him gladly.  
  
          With one final, sudden punch of a thrust, Lucas’s harp string snapped. He jammed himself to Dany’s hilt and let out a long, loud groan from his open mouth. Still holding her hips, Lucas pulled her against him, ensuring every last inch of his manhood was sheathed inside her snug slit, that all of his sensitive length could delight in her wet heat. Dany felt his manhood twitch inside her, jumping within her squeezing walls. She knew her husband was filling her with his seed.  
  
          When Lucas had given his last groan, his hands loosened on Dany’s hips. After some time of enjoying the feeling of his resting manhood inside her, Lucas began slowly pulling his hips back. Dany brought herself up with her elbows; she liked to look closer upon their joined flesh when her husband exited her. Lucas slid his manhood out of Dany’s gaping slit till his crown came free with a faint _shlick._ The moment his manhood slipped out of her, her pinkness closed into the slit of slim lips it always rested as. The moment after that, his seed followed. The white river poured out of the little hole at the bottom of the Dany’s slit. It streamed down the crack of her arse, warm and sticky. Dany hoped it took while it was inside her.  
  
          Lucas shuddered and sighed as he laid his softening manhood over her mound. It was slick from crown to root, glistening the in the firelight. Dany could see both her own wetness and Lucas’s smeared seed in that glistening sheen. She treasured that sight. It was the mark of their flesh’s union, the attestation of their love.  
  
          With his lust spent and his pleasure taken, Lucas leaned into Dany and kissed her. Dany suddenly flushed with emotion, butterflies swirling her stomach. _I’m yours,_ she wanted to profess to Lucas, just like she had on her first night with him, when he took her maidenhead and put Jace in her belly. But her mouth was occupied, and she wanted to savor this kiss for a while. She grabbed the back of Lucas’s head to keep him held there. _And you’re mine,_ she thought. Neither truly needed to be said. They both knew it.  
  
          When Dany was satisfied with their kiss, she took her hand from the back of her husband’s head and let him free. Lucas reared back and looked again upon Dany’s pinkness. She could see the marvel in his eyes. He loved seeing her filled with his seed, seeing her pink drooling with his white. When he’d seen enough, he reached over for the left bedside table and grabbed a square of fabric from it. He wiped up as much of his seed as he could, and did it gently enough that the rough texture of the fabric did not sting Dany’s sensitive flesh. Lucas then turned and flung it away, atop the underskirt Dany had been wearing. Both would be cleaned in the morning.  
  
          Lucas sighed and lay on his back beside Dany. She curled up against him as he tugged their bed furs out from beneath them. She had her head on his shoulder and her arm around his waist by the time he pulled the bed furs up over them.  
  
          No more than an hour after she and Lucas had fallen asleep, Dany was awoken by a gentle shake and whispered words. When she opened her eyes and came to, she saw that the knight standing over her wore a tabard displaying wheat stalks. It was Ser Barristan. “It’s Princess Aelyssa, Your Grace,” he whispered. “She awoke squalling.”  
  
          Her mind clouded and groggy, it took Dany a moment to gather herself enough to slip out from beneath the bed furs and stand on the floor. The soft carpet was such a comfort to her bare feet that it tempted her to lie back in bed, but she resisted. Dany went to the door, finding her way using the dim light from the lowered hearthfires. While she walked to the door, Ser Barristan unclasped his teal cloak and put it over Dany’s shoulders, to veil her nakedness with it. But the cloak was uncomfortably cold from resting on steel over a cool night, and Dany batted it away the moment it touched her.  
  
          When they were out the door and in the hall, they passed a few more Kingsguard knights. Ser Barristan attempted to cloak Dany once more. “Please, Your Grace. Allow me to give you modesty,” the old knight whispered, insisting.  
  
          “A pointless modesty,” Dany harshly whispered back. “If an assassin attacks me while I bathe, will you stop to cover me before you slay him? Will you shield your eyes and fight the man blind?”  
  
          Ser Barristan withdrew his cloak. “No. But I pray that day does not come.”  
  
          The instant interruption of her sleep had left Dany snappy, she herself could tell as much. She sighed and glanced at Ser Barristan over her shoulder. “Forgive me, Ser.”  
  
          Ser Barristan gave a gentle smile. He understood Dany’s weariness, she saw. “No forgiveness is needed, Your Grace.”  
  
          In Aly’s bedchamber, Dany was soon sitting with her daughter in the chair nearest her crib. Aly’s ceased her squalling when her mouth was brought to Dany’s teat; once she was latched, she suckled quietly. Dany held the back of sweet Aly’s soft head. As Dany looked upon her own fingers, a thought came to her. “They say my father kept his fingernails as long as his arms in his final years.” She looked up, upon Ser Barristan. “Is that true?”  
  
          Ser Barristan looked away for a moment, then looked back to Dany. His blue eyes were slow to meet hers. He seemed hesitant to answer. “Yes, Your Grace,” he eventually said.  
  
          Dany almost couldn’t believe it. “How could he get to be that way?”  
  
          “Your father, King Aerys ... he was a kind enough man in his early years of rule, but ... his reign wore on him,” Ser Barristan explained. “The man he died as was not the man he was when they first lay his crown upon his head. He always had a strangeness to him, your father, but ... events led that strangeness out of control. His strangeness became his madness.”  
  
          Dany felt sad. She frowned. She was sad as much for her father Aerys as for her mother Rhaella. If her father was not always the madman he died as, then that meant he didn’t have to be that way. It meant her mother didn’t have to suffer the cruelties of her mad husband, cruelties that by all accounts she did not deserve. Dany wondered if her mother loved her husband to the end, despite how he treated her. If she did, Dany could not blame her. Dany loved her brother Viserys to the end, despite his cruelties. “Do you think, had he lived, my father would’ve agreed to wed me to Lucas?” Dany asked.  
  
          “Were your father still the man he once was, I’ve no doubt of it. King Aerys and Lord Jacaerys were close friends for a very long time. Targaryens and Velaryons are raised to be close. Few houses have deeper ties than yours and your husband’s do. But their friendship was strained the longer Aerys’s reign went on, the further he descended into his madness.”  
  
          “You don’t think he would’ve, do you?”  
  
          Ser Barristan’s blue eyes had that somber look they so often had. “Truth be told, no, Your Grace. In his final days, your father did many things on paranoid whims. If the time ever came that he believed Lord Jacaerys to be turning against him, he would’ve had him burned. Sour though the thought may be, I cannot help but think that things had to go exactly as they did for you and His Grace to have been brought together. Otherwise, you might have met a much different fate, and might be a different woman than you now are.”  
  
          Dany nodded slowly, thinking over that. If a different fate meant she would not have Jace and Aly ... then Dany was glad she had met the fate she did.  
  
          “Let us not speak of your father any longer,” Ser Barristan said. “Let him rest where he is, in the past.”  
  
          Dany nodded again. She did her best to clear away those sad thoughts. Aly’s suckling was already slowing. Her mother’s milk was lulling her back to sleep. “When Jace was a few months old,” Dany began, “Clare told me I should try letting him cry himself back to sleep when he awoke during the night.” Dany shook her head. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t let him cry. I couldn’t hear him suffer.” Dany looked to Ser Barristan. “I’d do anything to protect them.”  
  
          “As a mother should.”  
  
          “When I hear talk of Cersei, of all she’s done to protect her children ... I can understand.”  
  
          Ser Barristan came closer to Dany. His gaze was hard and stern. “Your Grace, you are not Cersei. Cersei bore children with her brother.”  
  
          “My family wedded brother to sister for hundreds of years,” Dany said plainly. “My mother’s husband was her brother.”  
  
          That stopped Ser Barristan for a moment. “I’ll not defend that,” he said after pausing, “but the two are not the same. Those were marriages, unions of husband and wife. There was some sanctity in that. Cersei lay with one of her husband’s sworn knights. She not only bore her brother’s children, she then claimed them to be her king’s. She endangered her children herself.”  
  
          Dany looked down at her breast, at Aly. “I know,” she said, “but I understand.”  
  
          When Dany later returned to her bedchamber, Lucas was still sound asleep. He had not so much as shifted an inch. Whenever he slept as heavily as he was then, Dany was quite sure she could’ve mounted him and ridden him to completion without him awakening. _Perhaps one day I shall,_ she thought.  
  
          Dany’s next sleep was a much longer one. She dreamt sweet dreams. They were dreams of golden skies and crystal waters, of children and dragons, of laughter and roars.  
  
          When Dany awoke in the morning, she rolled over and saw Lucas standing naked by the nearest window, gazing out at the sea. That was a ritual of his. Dany loved the seas herself, but they were even more special to her husband.  
  
          “Dany,” Lucas said, still looking out through the window. He must’ve heard the bed furs rustle when Dany came to.  
  
          Dany’s eyes fluttered sleepily. “Yes, my love?” She reached out beside her, wishing that Lucas was still lying with her, that he was holding her.  
  
          Lucas’s next words left him slow. “There’s something I should tell you.”  
  
          Dany slid an arm out over the bed furs, towards Lucas. “Come back to bed first,” she pleaded.  
  
          Lucas paused, and then conceded. He turned about and strode to their bed. He sat on the bed’s edge and twisted to face Dany. She shifted closer, so that she lay on her side next to him. Lucas reached for her and rested a hand on her bare hip. As Lucas touched her, there was a conflicted look upon his face. For a long moment, he said nothing ... till he took his hand from Dany’s hip. “I’ll tell you some other time.”


End file.
